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A t»-\*M 


An Illustrated Monthly 

Edited by 



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— *•- 


Great English Painters of Beautiful Women 63 

Illustrations from Paintings by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Romney, Hoppner, and Gainsborough. 

A Cluster of Masterpieces 123 

Illustrations from Paintings by Lord Leigh ton, P.R.A.. Sir John E. Millais, P.R.A., J, L E. Mei&tonier, 
Sir Edward Bu me -J ones, J. M. W. Turner, R.A., D. G. Rossetti, Angelica KaufTmann, R.A. 

Gkms of the South Kensington Collection 243 

Illustrations from Paintings by Charles Green, R.I., Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A., W. P. Frith, R.A., 
Sir Edwin Land seer, R.A., Albert Moore, Ford Madox Brown, Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

Some Popular Pictures— Past and Present 363 

Illustrations from Paintings by Young Hunter, J. M. W. Turner, R.A., T. R. Lamont, A.R.W.S., 
J. L. E. Meissonier, A, C tiow, R.A., C. R. Leslie, R.A., Ralph Peacock. 

.A Septette of Favourite Paintings 483 

Illustrations from Paintings by Paul Thumann, J. Girardet, A. J. Elsley, Martin Kavel, 
Jennie Brownscomhe, A. Rosell, Sir J. E. Millais, P. R.A. 

Art's Glimpses of the Past 603 

Illustrations from Paintings by Miss Alice Manly, John Pettie, R.A., J. Haynes-WHHams, Stephen Lewin, 
Sir J. £. Millais, P.R.A., Frank Dicksee, R.A., Edwin Long, R.A. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Facsimiles and Heading by Alan Wright. 


Illustrations by P. B. Hick ling. 


Illustrations by Harry Furniss. 

John J. Ward. 453 

Jama Mortimer. 625 

Princess di Teano. 145 



... /. M. Hay. 167 

William Dalton. 398 


Illustrations by Tom Browne, R. I. 


Illustrations by A. S. Boyd. 

Illustrations by C Thorpe and Fred Buchanan. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Sidney Paget. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd 


Illustrations by Hy. Mayer. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

ENCHANTED CASTLE, THE. A Story for Children ... 
Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations by P. B. Hickling. 

Francis Griddle. 175 

Albert Harris. 657 

A. C. MacLaren. 672 

"5» 235, 356, 475, 596, 715 

Cecil Raleigh. 664 

W. W.Jacobs. 290 

... Arthur Morrison. 74 

B. L. Noyes. 215 

Frederic Lees. 575 

E. Nesbil. 106, 227, 348, 466, 588, 706 
Mrs. Baillu Reynolds. 676 

FASHION AND THE FOOTLIGHTS. A Symposium of Eminent Actresses. 

Illustrations from Photographs. Ka*herine M. Romsey. 506 

FINAL £!L A y c^'cw UNIVERSITY OF MICHlfoti Mews ' * 7 * 




Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


I (lustrations by £. S. Hodgson. 


Illustrations by Sydney Seymour Lucas. 


Illustrations by H. Burgess. 

HOSTS INVISIBLE: Thk Story of an Army 

Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 


IV.— Round the World 

V.— Round Paris 

VI.— Land's End to John o' Groat's 

VII.— Through Dickens-Land 

VIII.— Round the Coast 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Alfred Pearse. 


Illustration from a Photograph. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by B. E. Minns. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville, 

MASTERPIECES, A CLUSTER OF (See " Art, Masterpieces of M ) 


Illustrations from Facsimiles and a Photograph. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 



C. C Andrews. 195 

/. /. Bell. 84 

Mrs. Hubert Bland. 513 

Francis Walsinqham Mather. 152 
Max Pemberton. 305 

... 189 



Madame Albani. 703 

W. W.Jacobs. 56 

C. C. Andrews. 631 

W. W.Jacobs. 569 

Francis Gribble. 539 

...Dr. Frederic Cowen. 89 

Miss S. Macnaughtan. 445 


Emit Saner. 523 

Dr. Frederic Cowen. 89 

NELSON, COULD HE ENTER THE NAVY TO-DAY? The Opinions of Eminent Admirals . . 
Illustrations from Old Prints and Photographs. 

NICE LITTLE TIME, A C. C. Andrews. 528 

Illustrations by W. S. Stmcey. 


Illustrations by W. B. Wollcn, R.I. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo and from Photographs and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by Sidney Paget. 

Frederick P. Burton. 266 
... Warwick Deeping. 324 

PAINTINGS, A SEPTETTE OF FAVOURITE (See " Art, Masterpieces of") 483 

PIANO, THE BEST WAY TO STUDY THE /. / Paderewski. 385 

Illustrations by Alan Wright and from Photographs. 

PICTURES, SOME POPULAR— PAST AND PRESENT (See " Art, Masterpieces of ") 363 

PINNACLE PRISON, THE. A Tale of Thessaly A. E. Johnson. 26 

Illustrations by Lawson Wood. 

POPULATIONS, THE STANDING-ROOM OF ... Q r j nj na | f ranf 4rlhur T, .Dotting. 685 


Illustrations from Sketches and a Photograph. 





Balfour, The Right Hon. Arthur 

James, M.P 81 

Bryce, The Right Hon. James ... 206 


Illustrations by Alfred Pearse and from Sketches and Diagrams. 


Illustrations by J. Finnemore, R.I. 

Haldane, The Right Hon. Richard B. f 
M.P 315 

Arthm T. Boiling. 283 
Winifred Graham. 433 


Illustrations by A. Wallis Mills. 

F. Frankfort Moore. 648 


Illustrations by Paul Hardy. 


II.— The Adventure of the Lost Girl 

III.— The Adventure of the Masked Ball 

IV.— The Adventure of the Hidden Prince 

V. — The Adventure of the Nuremberg Watch 
VI.— The Adventure of the Glove and the Ring ... 
VIL— The Adventure of the Mysterious Motor-Car 

Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by A. Wallis Mills. 


Illustrations by W. S. Stacey. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo and from Photographs and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

Basil Tour. 

C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 

Dr. Macnamara y M.P. 

Mrs. Baiilie Reynolds. 

Richard Marsh. 

Frederick R. Burton. 

Masterpieces of " ) 


49 1 





95. 344, 44i 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Sidney Paget. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations from Photographs and a Facsimile. 

George Lander. 209 

W. E. Norris. 419 

Lloyd Osbourne. 690 

W. W.Jasobs. 404 

Edivard Frith. 318 

WAIF Basil Maman. 

Illustrations by B. E. Minns. 

WOMEN, BEAUTIFUL, GREAT ENGLISH PAINTERS OF (See " Art, Masterpieces of ") ... 


A Chapter of Accidents 
The Story of a Landscape 

Twelve Months 
Piano-Playing Extraordinary 

Euclid Inebriated 

A Chinese Dante 

Clubs for Jilted Lovers... 
Some Curious Water-Marks 



Sharper Than a Needle 

Pictures from the Refuse Heap 

The Famous Maskelyne Box Trick ... 

A Man Who Tames Fish 

A Cup-and-Ball Academy 

The Secret of the Great Packing-Case 

Illustrations from Photographs, Old Prints, and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 





F. W. Aston, A J.C. 643 

p rtnn I,« Original from 

GFORGE NEWNES, LIMITED, 3—19, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, j^Tpf^^^ 01 * 1 ?^^)^!! If" i II 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 



r>wvi[<* [S "*« e7 ' ) Original from 

The Strand Magazine. 

Vol. xxxiii. 

JANUARY, 1907. 

No. 193. 

The Scarlet Runner. 

By C N. and A. M. Williamson. 

Authors of " The Lightning Conductor" " My Friend the Chauffeur" etc. 

scorching. He had engaged 
to do an impossible thing, or 
impossible with a car less sym- 
pathetic than Scarlet Runner, 
but he believed that he was 
going to do it. 

He had had a tingling rush down a long, 
straight stretch of road when, slowing as 
little as might be for a turning, he shot 
through a wooded common and ran upon 
something interesting. 

Mechanically he came to a stop, so 
suddenly that Scarlet Runner — her armour 
off for speed — waltzed in yesterday's mud, 
and put her bonnet where her driving-wheels 
should have been. 

Above her head and Christopher's a 
charming balloon was poised, its anchor 
attaching it to earth in an adjacent field, 
while leaning over the edge of its basket-car, 
at a height of thirty feet in air, a young man 
drank a cup of tea and looked down upon 
the approaching motor. 

" Halloa ! " said he in the sky. 

" Halloa,! " replied he on the earth. 

" That's what you call side-slip, isn't it ? " 

" Or its first cousin," grumbled Christopher, 
angry with himself and ruffled with the 
stranger. He wished now he had clad his 
darling for action, in her non- skidding bands. 

" Side-slip's something we never get," said 
the young man in the balloon, watching the 
motorist right his car. " Or tyre trouble ; 
or " 

" We don't have to say our prayers every 
time we want to stop," said Christopher. 
"Good-bye. Hope you'll get somewhere." 

" I'm in no hurry to get anywhere," 
answered the other. " I'm out for fun ; 
aren't you ? " 

" No ; for business. Good-bye again." 

" Don't go," urged the balloonist. " Nice 
red assassin you've got — only a bit old- 
fashioned. ' 

" Old-fashioned ! " echoed Christopher. 
"Why, she's the latest thing out. She's " 

Vol. xxxiii. — 1. Copyright, 1906, by C. 

" Excuse me, I only meant old-fashioned 
in comparison with my Little Stranger. An 
automobile's the vehicle of yesterday, a 
balloon the carriage of to-morrow." 

" Well, they'll both be out of date the day 
after," said Christopher, and smiled, for, after 
all, there was something engaging about the 
young man in the sky. 

" Sufficient for the day is the balloon 
thereof," retorted the other. 

" For me, the automobile thereof. I've 
no ambition to own a strawberry basket." 

" Oh, I wasn't going to offer you one," 
said the balloonist. "But I should like to 
offer you some tea." 

" Not on my head, please." 

"Thy sins alone be there! But I'm in 
earnest. I've some Orange Pekoe and 
plovers' egg sandwiches fit for a king." 

"I'm not in that business myself," said 
Christopher, "though I may look the part. 
And I've some nice penny sticks of chocolate 
in my pocket, which will keep my vital spark 

" Don't think much of chocolate as a 
sparking-plug myself," replied the voice from 
on high. 

"Ah ! You know something of the jargon. 
Are you a motorist too ? " 

" I was, in dark ages. Have you tried the 

"Not off the level." 

" Once you do, you'll turn up your nose at 
the road." 

" Shape forbids. And time forbids further 
discussion. Wish you joy of the plovers' 

" I don't know where you want to go, but 
I bet I could get you there quicker than you 
can get yourself." 

"What? Could you go from London to 
Torquay in seven hours? That's what I'm 
trying to do." 

"Shouldn't have to try. Shall I take 
you ? " 

;;Carandall?'^| fron 


up at the village, which I can see not far off, 
though in your worm-like position on earth 
you can't get a glimpse of it. Shouldn't 
wonder if there's a garage of sorts," 

There was a microbe in Christopher Race's 
blood which 
went mad when 
it came in con- 
tact with the 
microbe of a 
suggested adven- 
ture. His errand 
from London to 
Torquay was an 
errand of busi- 
ness, as he had 
hinted ; and 
though he had 
11 personally con- 
ducted" two 
short tours and 
made a little 
money since he 
had set up as 
a gentleman 
chauffeur to 
prove to his rich 
uncle the stuff 
that was in him, 
he could not 
afford to miss 
any promising 

An advertise- 
ment of his had 
been answered 
yesterday by a 
Mr. Finning ton 
Brown, of Fin- 
nington Hall, 
near Torquay, 
inviting him to 
bring his car on 
a visit of inspec- 
tion and be engaged for a month's trip if 
satisfactory. Because he was proud of Scarlet 
Runner, and liked to slum tier paces, he 
had wired that he would (tyres permitting) 
reach the Hall in a seven hours' run from 
London ; but now he had met Apollyon on 
the way, and Apollyon tempted him. 

It w r ould surprise Mr. Finnington Brown if 
the advertising chauffeur dropped in on him 
in a balloon, say an hour earlier than ex- 
pected in a motor-car, and explained that— 
that but bother explanations !— say that, 
owing to unforeseen circumstances, Scarlet 
Runner would appear lau r. 

Such an escapade would be bad for 


business, but — it would be the best of jokes, 
especially if Finnington Brown were some 
old-fashioned duffer. And if the balloon 
never got to Finnington Hallj or anywhere else 
on earth, why, it was all in the day's work, 

and everything, 
even life^ must 
end some time. 

"I accept 
with pleasure 
your kind in- 
vitation for tea 
and a canter," 
C h ri stoph e r 
said, aloud. 
"Will you call 
for me, or do I 
call for you ?" 

"Well make* 
a rendezvous, 1 ' 
replied the other, 
* l a little lower 
down — or what 
you're still ac- 
customed to 
'down/ When 
you've put up 
your crawler, 
you might just 
bring along an 
yokel or two to 
help unhitch me 
from the stars, 
eh? I don't 
want to let my- 
self down, as I 
catft spare gas." 
"Thank good- 
ness, we don't 
have to call for 
aid in putting 
on brakes or 
starting -handle," Christopher 
skyward as he flashed 

turning the 
flung the words 
towards the village. 

It was no more than half a mile away, but 
owing to a sharp shower the population had 
been kept within bounds and had missed 
seeing their sky visitor. Otherwise the 
gentleman in the balloon would not have 
eaten his plovers' eggs in peace, Christopher 
put up his car at the inn stable, which 
thought itself a garage, and in the company 
of three young men, whom he easily collected, 
returned to the field of the balloon by a 
short cut acroiiSflJiifltiOfers. 

^|V^lffWF#PCI*3AMeturn unaccom- 


By this time Western had stopped chopping 
branches to glance over his shoulder. 

" By Jove, we are close ! " he exclaimed. 
"Narrow shave we must have had from 
crashing down on the roof in this mist — it's 
so deceiving. But, as it is, we're all right. 
Only keep her off the house, your side. It 
is a wonder we don't see the shadows of 
heads, by this time, in the light from that 
window. We're almost in it" 

" I can touch the stone ledge, just round 
the corner of the house wall," said Chris- 
topher. "It's wet— there's a pool of " 

44 Water " was the word on his tongue ; 
but, as he pulled back his hand and looked 
at it in the yellow haze of lamplight which 
mingled with the moon's rays, he drew in his 
breath quickly. 

" What's the matter?" asked Western. 

" Look ! " Christopher answered, in an 
odd voice, holding out his hand. Fingers 
and palm were dyed red, a wet red that 

44 Fresh paint, perhaps," suggested Western. 
But his voice was also strange. 

44 Paint doesn't run like water ; paint 
doesn't fall in drops," Christopher said, 

44 Then -you think " 

44 1 think there's something very queer 
about this house." 

Their lively tones were hushed now. 
Involuntarily they whispered. 

44 Pooh ! I know what you mean, but it 
can't be. A window-sill. Why should— 
such things don't happen." 

44 All the same, I'm going to hang out from 
the car and try to twist round the corner far 
enough to see " 

44 Wait till I hang on to you, or you'll get 
a tumble." 

Christopher leaned out, with one knee on 
the edge of the trapped car, one hand 
plunged into and grasping the thick-stemmed 
ivy. Hanging thus, he could see the window 
whence came the light ; and as he looked, 
peering through the mist, a slight breeze 
sprang up and blew a fold of the white veil 
away. He could see round the corner and 
into the lighted window, but only a faint 
impression of what he saw there remained 
with him— a vague picture of an old-fashioned, 
oak-panelled room, with a great many books, 
and a long mirror opposite the window— for 
it was something in the window itself which 
caught and held his gaze. He saw it, and 
saw it repeated in the mirror, or, rather, saw 
there what he could see in no other way. 

A man's body hung over the window-sill, 

inert and lifeless. He had fallen backward 
and lay half out, his head and shoulders 
protruding over the stone ledge which 
Christopher had touched, the face upturned 
and white in the mingling light of lamp and 

Christopher saw it upside down, the eyes 
rolled back and staring open, as if they strove 
to find and look into his. There was a red 
stain on the forehead, and the hair, which 
was dark and long, clung wet and matted 
over the brows. The lips were twisted into 
a terrible, three-cornered smile, and Chris- 
topher started back from it with a cry. 

44 What did you see ? " asked Western. 

Christopher told him. 44 Do you want to 
look and make sure I'm not mad ? " he 

For an instant Western hesitated, then said 
that he would look. 

Christopher held him, as he had held 
Christopher ; but the look was a brief one. 

44 For Heaven's sake, let's get out of this," 
Western stammered. i4 1 hope I'm no 
coward, but it's too ghastly — happening on 
such a thing — whatever it is, whatever it 
means. It makes me sick to be near it. 
Where's that axe ? Here. We'll be free, 
and off into pure air in a minute." 

With a crash, a branch broke short off 
under the axe. Western threw out sand, and 
the Little Stranger floated up, bumping 
against a curious, battlemented roof, which 
rose and stretched dark in the moonlight. 

44 We're caught again ! Another branch 
somewhere ! " cried Western, desperately, 
just as they had thought to sail out of danger 
of perilous bumps. He groped once more 
for the axe, which he had thrown carelessly 
down in his haste to get rid of sand. 

As he exclaimed, something moved near 
by, and a figure which had been hiding 
among the battlements sprang up and ran 
towards the swaying balloon. 

Highly wrought as they were, at first the 
two young men were struck with horror, as if t 
beholding a spirit ; but as the clear moon- 
light fell full upon the form common sense 
came back, and they knew that this was no 
ghostly vision. 

A girl in a white dress was hurrying along 
the flat roof, her arms outstretched in a 
detaining gesture. 44 Save me ! " she faltered, 
her voice broken by fear or pain. 

Whether or no it was partly the effect of 
the moonlight, the girl seemed to Christopher 
and Western the most beautiful creature they 
had ever seen, even iirii the dreams which the 
reading cf [x>ets* farcies brings to boys. 



She had hair which the moon burnished to 
copper, and it fell in two long, thick ropes or 
braids over slim shoulders and young bosom. 
The white radiance which had pierced the 
blowing mist shone into her eyes, making 
them large and dark, and wonderful as wells 
that mirror stars in black depths. 

"Oh, save me— take me with you — who- 
ever you are — wherever you go — anywhere 
away from this awful house ! " she begged of 
the strangers, as she came flying across the 
dark, flat expanse behind the battlements. 
And eagerly Christopher Race and Paul 
Western put out their arms to reach and 
draw her into the car. 

But Fate came between them and the girl. 
A new puff of wind caught the balloon again, 
bumping the basket against the battlements, 
so that both men staggered and fell upon 
their knees. So great and so sudden was 
the strain that the branch which for a 
moment had arrested them broke with a 
sharp snap, and the balloon, already lightened 
of ballast, was whirled away like a soap- 
bubble before they had time to speak. 

In a second the white girl and the dark 
battlements had been swept out of sight. 
Western got to his feet and seized the valve- 
cord, but Christopher, still on his knees, 
cried out a warning " Stop ! " 

"Listen," he said; "what's that sound?" 

Western paused with his hand on the cord, 
his ears alert. 

The balloon was in a boiling surf of snowy 
cloud, lit by the moon. They could see 
nothing save this glittering froth, but there 
was a sound louder and more ominous than 
the harp-like singing of the cordage. From 
below came at short, regular intervals a deep, 
reverberating boom. 

In his excitement Western had not heard, 
until Christopher compelled his attention. 

"The sea! "he exclaimed. "We're over 
the sea." 

" Another moment and we should have 
been in it," added Christopher. 

"Then that house must stand close to the 
shore," Western said. "Sixty seconds ago 
we were there ; now " 

"We're being blown out to sea, aren't 
we ? " finished Christopher. 

" I'm afraid we are," the other admitted. 
" Great Scot ! I wouldn't have had this 
happen for anything." 

" Is it so dangerous ? " 

" Hang danger ! I wasn't thinking of 
myself— or you either. I was thinking of 
the girl— that beautiful, that divine girl. 
We've lost her— deserted her, left her 

abandoned — do you understand ? We can't 
get back to her. W 7 e don't know where she 
is. We can never find her again." 

" We must," said Christopher. " She 
begged us to save her. From what, I 
wonder? What had happened? What was 
she afraid would still happen ? What can 
be the secret of that terrible house ? " 

Western tilted out another bag of sand. 

The clouds fell from under them as they 
shot up into more rarefied air. " The best 
thing we can hope for now, I suppose," he 
went on, " is to get to France, and then back 
again, to find her and the house, or to spend 
all we have and are in trying to do it If 
we're to make this passage without shipwreck, 
we must travel high." 

" The girl — if she was a girl, and not a 
dream — seems to have made a tremendous 
impression on you in a short time," said 
Christopher, beginning to be himself again. 

"Girl ! Call her an angel, and you'd be 
nearer the mark," exclaimed Western. " I 
never knew there could be such a beautiful 
creature. And to think that she was in 
awful fear or trouble, that she called on me 
to save her, and that I failed, because of a 
mere puff of wind. It it hadn't been for 
that, and the cracking branch, she'd have 
been with us now." 

They were racing over a sea of steel 
which they could see sometimes through 
a great hole in a torn carpet of cloud. 
Western did not say anything to discourage 
his guest ; but, though Christopher was a 
novice, he had heard ballooning men talk 
since the sport came into fashion, and he 
knew that the English Channel was wide, 
that they might never see the other side, 
because the balloon might not have buoy- 
ancy enough to carry her passengers across. 

Time might drag, though the balloon flew 
as the rising wind flew. The two young men 
had said all they had to say, and fell silent as 
the hours sped by. But it was not because 
they were afraid ; fear would have been a 
mean emotion for these star-embroidered 
heights. Yet they were grave. The sky at 
night over a wild sea, when the breeze has 
increased to a wind and the wind has grown 
to a gale, is not a place for joking. 

Both men thought much of the battle- 
mented house, and the white girl who had 
appealed in vain for help. They thought, 
too, of the lost spirits in Dante's Inferno, 
impelled ever forward by the pitiless, driving 

So the nighjL#fit#ri<pn, and as the balloon 

" "l\*E^I77^F t hflCWl ,veiIture woulc * ^ ave 


begun to seem com- 
monplace, had it not 
been for the dark 
picture of the tragic 
house by the sea. 
There was nothing to 
do but to eat when 
they were hungry, to 
throw out ballast when 
the Little Stranger 
showed signs of falter- 
ing, to light their lamps 
and consult the com- 




After midnight the 
gale grew weary. They 
still hung over the sea, 
but far away shone a 
lamp like a fallen star. 
It was a lighthouse. 
Western said ; and, 
though they lost the 
welcome gleam, it was 
not long after when 
they heard once more 
the thunderous boom- 
ing of surf. Then they 
looked down on a vast 
stretch of opaque dark- 
ness, with no more 
glitter of moon on 
steely waves, 

" Land ! " shouted 
Western. *'She*s 

brought us safely across, after all. Below lies 
France — Normandy, perhaps. Now's our 
chance, and we must take it or fare worse," 

He pulled the valve-cord and they fell, 
thrilled with the wild joy of danger and un- 
certainty as they peered over the edge of 
their frail car into the gulf of moonlight and 
shadow. Suddenly Western made a quick 
movement and let down a drag-rope. "It 
touches," he said, " Hark ! Isn't that a cow 
lowing ? ?1 

The earth flew up at them, and not far oft 
were a group of farm buildings, wkh a large 
pond beyond. Delay of a moment might 
mean disaster, for here was the place to 
alight — not on those pointed gables or in the 
shining sheet of water. Western opened 
wide the valve, the car came quietly to earth, 
and before she could bump or drag he 
tugged the red ripping-cord and tore the 
Little Stranger from foot to crown. The gas 
gushed out, and folds of silk enveloped the 
two young men as the balloon lost shape and 

Vo.. „.iiL-i. 


M-.H.iNL^.K [■ ANP SHADOW." 

"Let her lie as she is/' said Western, 
coolly^ as he scrambled out and extricated 
his companion. "Our business is to get 
back to that girl" 

Christopher agreed with him, and together 
they started off through a ploughed field of 
sodden mud towards the buildings with the 
pointed roofs. There was a locked gate to 
climb, a farmyard to cross, and then a 
chained dog began to bay from his kennel. 
A square of light flashed yellow in a dark 
wall, and a voice hailed them in French. 

Both young men could speak the language, 
Race better than Western, and between 
them they explained that they were not 
burglars but balloonists ; that they had 
crossed the Manche> and had found a resting- 
place on the land of monsieur, of whom they 
begged assistance. Could he give them a 
cart to the nearest railway-station? If he 
could, they would give him money, much 
money, in return, 

14 It is lucky, monsieur, that you are not 
burglars, for you have come to the house ot 




the mayor of this commune," said the farmer, 
"and I have five tall sons. But since you 
are balloonists, and especially English ones, 
we will do what we can for you, even though 
it is the middle of the night Vive I'Entente 

In five minutes more the mayor and the 
mayor's sons were all out of the house, 
and some went to gaze curiously at the 
deflated balloon, while others helped their 
father get ready the white-covered cart. 

Succour and protection for the Little 
Stranger were promised, and the Englishmen 
were informed that they had alighted within 
twelve kilometres of Havre. The farmer 
thought it was too late to catch the South- 
ampton boat, and les messieurs had much 
better rest ; his sons thought it was not too 
late, and did their best to speed the parting 
guests. A hundred francs which had been 
Western's became the mayor's ; thanks and 
compliments fell thick as hail; and twenty 
minutes after the collapse of the Little 
Stranger its late navigators were speeding 
through the night as fast as a powerful 
Normandy horse could take them, towards 
Havre. They dashed into the quay as the 
last whistle blew for the departure of the 
night boat, and flung themselves across the 
gangway just as it was being hauled ashore. 

The journey back to England across a 
turbulent and noisy sea was a vulgar 
experience compared to their flight with 
the wind among the stars. But as neither 
felt in the mood for rest, it gave them time 
to discuss details of their premeditated quest. 

Of course, said Christopher, there might 
be something in the morning paper which 
could give them the clue they wanted; in 
which case they would know what to do 
next. But, if the mystery of the battle- 
mented house and its lighted window were 
not revealed to them after their landing at 
Southampton, he proposed that they should 
as soon as possible retrieve Scarlet Runner, 
and tour the coast in her. Unless there were 
news of the house and what had happened 
there, the only way in which they could 
hope to find it was by recognising the battle- 
ments. Beyond that one salient feature, and 
their knowledge that the house (which must 
have at least one pine tree near it) stood close 
to the sea, they had no other clue to guide 
them to the girl they had lost. 

It was eight in the morning when they 
touched English soil, and their first thought 
was to buy a newspaper, of which they 
scarcely let a paragraph go unregarded. But 
they learned nothing. So far, the battlemented 

Digitized by G< 

house kept its secret ; nevertheless, if fortune 
did not favour them in one way, it did in 
another, for they discovered a train leaving 
Southampton almost immediately after their 
arrival, which would take them across country 
to Scarlet Runner. 

She lay at a small village not far from 
Yeovil ; and it was after eleven when 
Christopher had the congenial task of feeding 
her with petrol and refreshing her with cool 
water. To do this was the affair of only a 
few minutes, and then, having wired to Mr. 
Finnington Brown, he was ready to return 
Western's hospitality of yesterday. 

All night the expert balloonist had puzzled 
over the problem of distances and speed, 
trying to determine from the map of England 
how far and in what direction the Little 
Stranger had drifted after taking Race on 
board, before the sudden March gale had 
subsided and dropped him, in a rising sea- 
fog, at the lost house. Now, in obedience 
to Western's calculations, Scarlet Runner's 
bonnet was pointed upon a south-easterly 
course, slanting always towards the sea. 

When, well on in the afternoon, they came 
to Weymouth, they told each other that their 
systematic search was only beginning. It 
was not unlikely that they might find the 
house of the battlements in this neighbour- 
hood ; and, describing it as well as they could 
at a motor garage which they visited, they 
watched for a look of recognition. But 
nobody at the garage and nobody at the old- 
fashioned hotel where they next applied had 
ever heard of or seen such a mansion by the 

Eastward Christopher drove Scarlet Runner 
after Weymouth, taking the coast road when 
there was one, and, when the way wandered 
irrelevantly elsewhere, exploring each side- 
track which might lead to a house by the 
shore. So darkness fell, and all the searchings 
and all the questionings had been vain. It 
was useless to go on after nightfall, and in 
the sequestered hollow of Lul worth Cove 
they stopped till dawn beckoned them on. 

The newspapers which found their.way late 
to Lulworth had nothing in them of interest 
to Christopher Race or Paul Western, 
though they were crammed with world-shaking 
events ; and they did not wait for the coming 
of the papers next day. By six o'clock they 
were off upon their chivalrous errand, neither 
behind the other in eagerness, for Christopher 
did not see why he had not as much right as 
Western to fall in love with the beautiful 
mystery. He had already imagined himself 
in love several times, though when he reflected 

u I I I ■_' I I I 




upon the affairs in cold blood he knew that 
there had been nothing in them. He did not 
even grudge his cousin, Ivy de Lisle, to his 
friend Max Lind, but he wondered if he would 
not grudge this wonderful girl to Paul Western, 

It seemed to him that to find the girl and 
save her from the horror she had feared, to 
win her love, and eventually marry her about 
the time that his rich uncle should decide to 
leave him everything, would be a delicious 
romance ; and when Western began to make 
some such remark, apropos to his own state 
of mind, Christopher frankly proclaimed his 
own intentions, 

" But I tell you the girl is mine," argued 
the other, surprised and disgusted; for he 
had taken Christopher's helpfulness for dis- 
interested sympathy, 

" Why is she yours more than mine ? " 
argued Race. 

*' Because — I saw her first," said Western, 

"That would be difficult to prove," said 

" Anyhow, it was my balloon," 

"I was your honoured guest. Besides, if 
you hadn't thrown out sand, we could have 
stopped and taken her away," 

" I laid first claim. You can't deny that. 
You should have spoken when I first told 
you how much I admired her. Oh, by every 
rule, she's mine." 

"First catch your hare," said Christopher, 

" What a simile ! If only for that, you 
don't deserve hor." 

"So far as that's concerned, I don't 
suppose there's much to choose between us." 

" I wish I thought you were chaffing," 
said the American. 

"Tin not," 

"Then how's this thing to be decided?" 
" By the girl— when we find her," 
"Yes. But one of us— the one who gets 
ahead— is bound to have the best chance. 
Look here T I'm obliged to stick to your 
company, for I can't get on without your car ; 
it would mean too much delay now to wire 
somewhere and try to hire an equally good 

"There isn't such a thing," said Christopher, 
" Well, one half as good, then. I'm at 
your mercy* You wouldn't haye seen the 
girl if it hadn't been for me* You might 
stand aside and let me propose. We 
Americans think nothing of asking a girl to 
marry us the first time we see her 3 if we 
really want her and some other fellow's likely 
to snatch her out of our possession. But an 
Englishman could never do the thing offhand 

like that. He * 

" Nonsense," cut in Christopher. " English- 
men are the same as Americans. We're 
brothers ; and just because we are, III come 
to an agreement with you. If we find the 

girl " 

" Whtn we find her. Don't say ' \V " 
"When we find her, the one who does 
most towards saving her shall have the right 
to speak first. Do you agree ? " 

"Yes/* said Western, after a moment's hesi- 
tation. He was sitting beside Christopher, 
and as they discussed the probable result of 
their quest it progressed fruitlessly. Explora- 
tion was difficult, for great cliffs walled the 
coast, and only here and there were they cut 
into hollows where small side-roads ran to 
the sea. A place as important as the battle- 

"SCARLET EUNNBR MURLBO HF.fl-S&LF IK Ptflt^lj ^"j-j ^ | f fQ pf| 




mented house must be approached by a 
road, and though they passed through village 
after village, learning nothing, they would 
not give way to discouragement. 

Sooner or later, they said to each other, 
they would find the house. But there was a 
thing which they did not say aloud. Suppose 
it were too late? Already thirty-six hours 
and more had gone by since they had lost 
the girl — lost her at the moment when she 
cried to them for help. Someone else might 
have given that help. Or else — it might be 
that she had passed beyond the need — for 
ever. But these things did not bear 
speaking of. 

Scarlet Runner had sped under the 
shadow of a ruined castle, and was nearing 
Ardwanage, when a train which had not yet 
gathered full speed after leaving the station 
ran towards them along the line, that here lay 
parallel with the road. Race had slowed 
down for a frightened horse, and he was in 
the act of putting on speed again when 
Western sprang up in the seat beside him. 
"Turn — as quick as you can," he stammered. 
" Catch that train. She's tn itl" 

" She?" echoed Christopher, bewildered, 
but obeying. 

"She— the girl — my lost girl. I saw her." 

" Our lost girl," Christopher amended, and 
slipped in his fourth speed. "If Scarlet 
Runner can catch that train, and she's really 
in it, the first chance is mine — eh ? " 

"Yes — yes, anything, if you'll only bring 
me to her," gasped Western. "She was 
there — you may take my word. There's no 
one like her. Her face was at the open 
window, with the same expression on it as 
when she begged us to save her. Whatever 
the mystery is — whatever has happened since 
that night — she's horribly unhappy and 
frightened. It may be it isn't too late to 
save her yet." 

" Was she alone ? " asked Christopher, as 
Scarlet Runner, sensitively responsive to his 
touch, leaped ahead like a panther. Lucky 
there were no more frightened horses in the 
way ! 

" How can I tell ? I saw only her," said 
Western. " And yet, now I come to think, 
I'm not sure there wasn't a man by her side, 
and a man in the window facing her, too. I 
don't know what they were like, but — some- 
how I've an impression of common faces, in 
strong contrast to hers." 

Christopher did not answer, but a thought 
was in his mind which made him neglect to 
put on the brakes at the top of a steep 
descent. Scarlet Runner coasted down, and 

by LiOOgle 

kept the train well in sight Though sh< 
leaped, panther-like, she held on her terrifi* 
way with a rhythm and speed which n< 
animal could equal. 

The smoke of the locomotive trailed it 
dark flag along the sky, and Scarlet Runnei 
hurled herself in pursuit. 

The heavy engine drawing its huge loac 
could do forty miles an hour on an ever 
track ; the light car, clean and springy as s 
trained athlete, could sprint at least twenty 
miles faster on the road, but that road must be 
clear, and there came in the skill of the driver. 

Christopher Race was a driver born, not 
made. His eye saw and understood with the 
quickness of light. His hand and foot moved 
with automatic precision ; his nerve was 
unshaken. Western admired him, and for 
the moment compared the sport of ballooning 
unfavourably with that of motoring. 

On the long, straight stretch of road the 
wind shouted in their ears like a hurricane, 
and Scarlet Runner gained easily on the dark 
trail of smoke. But she plunged into a 
village, with children toddling out of cottages 
to their playground, the public road. In an 
instant the speed had dropped to a crawl, 
and the car, with its musical siren sounding 
a tuneful warning, picked its path among tiny 
maids and men, skimmed silently past an 
unattended cart-horse just ready to bolt, and 
sprang out with a bound into open country 

" We shall do it ! " cried Western ; and 
then, round a turn, showed a railway-crossing. 
A moment earlier, and the car would have 
shot through like an arrow ; but Race had to 
jam the brake on with sudden force, or 
Scarlet Runner's bonnet would have crashed 
into the gates as they swung shut. 

The car was ahead of the train at the 
crossing, and Western shouted an offer of 
ten pounds to the gatekeeper if he would 
open for a second and let them rush by ; but 
the man shook, his head, and they had to 
wait, not only to see the train go past, but to 
sit chafing while the huge caterpillar length 
of a luggage train followed, crawling along 
the other line. 

Later it was shunted on to a siding, and 
blocked the way for five of the longest 
; minutes either young man had ever known. 
The race was over, and they had lost. 

It was easy enough to learn from the gate- 
keeper that the train they had chased was 
bound for London, but, as it would stop at 
four stations before reaching its destination, 
it was impossible to guess at which the girl 
was most likely to get out. 




All they could do was to pause at each 
town in turn, and inquire at the station for a 
young lady answering their description. Such 
a girl, it seemed to them, could not pass 
unnoticed by the most married station- 
master or unobservant porter; therefore, 
when they asked at Marne for a beau- 
tiful blonde with red-gold hair, and were 
told that no such person had left the London 
or any other train, they would instantly have 
dashed on towards Bee mouth, if it had not 
been for Scarlet Runner. She needed water 
and petrol ; and while Christopher was 
supplying her wants, Western bought a news- 
paper of that morning* 

" Ready to go on,' J said Christopher. 

"We won't go on. We stop here, 1 ' 
answered the American, excitedly. " Read 

He pointed to a half column of startling 
headlines ; H Murder or Suicide of a Baronet. 
Master of Abbey Court, Dorsetshire. Beau- 
tiful Young Girl Accused, and Arrested by 
Police While Trying to Escape/* 

Christopher read on, 
eagerly absorbing the sen- 
sational version of the 
mystery which to him and 
his companion had seemed 

Sir Dig by Plantagenet 
was an eccentric, middle- 
aged baronet, claiming 
descent from kings. He 
was a childless widower, 
living alone save for two 
old servants, in a desolate 
but beautiful house, 
dating from the days of 
Henry VII. Though rich 
enough to keep a generous 
household, he lived almost 
as a miser, and saw no one 
until a year ago, when he 
sent for a daughter of his 
dead brother, a young girl, 
Margaret Plantagenet, 
whom he had been educat- 
ing in a French convent 
school The girl had come 
to live with her uncle, and 
eight or nine months after 
her arrival both servants — 
husband and wife — had 
left. The gossip of the 
countryside was that Sir 
Digby's growing eccen- 
tricity had been too much 
for them ; hut others said 

that, having hoped that their master's fortune 
might become theirs by his will, jealousy of 
the beautiful niece had finally compelled 
them to give notice. 

For several months the young girl had 
acted as her uncle's housekeeper, without 
assistance. No servants were engaged, no 
visitors received ; no one ever came to the 
house except two or three privileged trades- 
men from Marne, the county town, ten miles 
distant. The day before the publication of 
the report a Mame grocer had called at 
Abbey Court with his cart, as he was in the 
habit of doing twice a week, to bring milk 
and other stores which Miss Plantagenet 
used in her housekeeping. His knocking 
remained unanswered, and at last he dis- 
covered that a side - door was unlocked. 
Fearing some tragedy in the strange house- 
hold , he entered, cried Miss Flamagenet's 
name, but had no answer. He then ventured 
on an exploration, and finally made a dread- 
ful discovery : the body of Sir Digby hung 
half out of a window invisible from the back 




>PY OF SIR DIGBY HMG~ j^ffflfftf f^-,f fl" NDOW, w 




of the house where the grocer entered. The 
unfortunate baronet had been shot in the 
breast and in the head, though no weapon 
was to be seen ; and Miss Plantagenet, the 
only other occupant of the house, had dis- 
appeared. The grocer at once notified the 
police at Marne, and search was made for the 
missing girl. Late in the evening she was 
found at Weymouth, in a state of collapse, at a 
small hotel near the railway station, where she 
had arrived that morning. She was arrested 
on suspicion of murdering her eccentric uncle, 
whose heiress she was believed to be ; but 
her weakness and hysterical condition had 
prevented her from making any statement 
A doctor had, however, been called in, and 
announced that Miss Plantagenet would 
probably be well enough next day to be 
taken back by train as far as Marne, where 
she would have to appear at the coroner's 

" She's here now," said Western. " By 
this time the inquest has probably begun. 
Those men I saw must have been policemen 
in charge of the poor child — the brutes ! We 
must go to the inquest ourselves, as quick as 
we can get there. Only think; if I hadn't 
bought that paper we'd have been off to the 
next place. This time / am the Ace of 

" You wouldn't have got to Marne if it 
hadn't been for me," replied Christopher ; 
and Western had to admit that this was true. 
" So far it's a tie," he said, " and the grand 
test is still to come." 

How so beautiful a girl had passed through 
the railway station without being noticed 
would have been puzzling if Christopher 
had not suggested that she had doubtless 
veiled her face. Probably the town was agog 
over the mystery of Abbey Court, and the 
police escort, who must have been in plain 
clothes, would have taken pains to keep secret 
the time of their arrival. 

The people of the garage where Christopher 
had bought his petrol knew all about the 
" murder " (as they prematurely termed it), 
and were enchanted to point out the way to 
the inn where the coroner's inquest was 
at that moment being held. Everybody 
was saying, they added gratuitously, that 
Margaret Plantagenet was the murderess. 
Sir Digb/s two servants, who had taken 
a cottage close to Marne, had been called 
as witnesses, also the grocer's assistant who 
had notified the police of the tragedy. 
Besides the doctor who had been called to 
Abbey Court to certify to the time and 
manner of death, two or three tradesmen 

Digitized by Lt< 

accustomed to serving the house, and Sir 
Digby's solicitor— one of the leading lights of 
Marne — there would be no other witnesses, 
so far as the people of the garage knew ; 
and they seemed to know everything. 

According to public opinion, Miss 
Plantagenet had had motive enough to 
kill her uncle. He was a man of vindictive 
temper, an expert in the art of irritating 
and torturing those dependent upon him. 
Some said that he was mad, and for the 
last year or two he had been feared by 
everyone forced to come in contact with 
him. Ever since a fall from a horse in 
hunting six or seven years ago he had been 
peculiar, and had grown more so every year. 

Little was known in Marne about Miss 
Plantagenet; but she had been seen, and 
was considered beautiful. Some ladies said 
it was not natural to be so handsome as that, 
and the girl must be an adventuress. She 
had been named as Sir Digby's heiress, and 
expected to come into a fortune of a hundred 
thousand pounds on his death. There was 
the motive; and the man had, perhaps, 
maddened the girl by some act of tyranny or 
brutality. She had no other relatives — no one 
to protect her. Gossip said that Sir Digby's 
solicitor, Mr. Walter Ressler, had wanted 
to marry Miss Plantagenet and had been 
refused ; but neither Mr. Ressler nor anyone, 
except a few tradesmen, had called at Abbey 
Court for months. As for the servants, Mr. 
and Mrs. Honey, they had never had a good 
word to say for the young girl since they left 
Abbey Court to live at Marne. They described 
her as an ambitious, designing creature, whose 
one idea had been to get Sir Digby into her 
power ; but, then, they were prejudiced, as 
she had accused them of pilfering, and it 
was through her that they had lost their 
soft berth, or so everyone supposed. Their 
evidence would certainly go against Miss 
Plantagenet at the inquest. Mrs. Honey had 
told a friend last night, after the news came, 
that an old-fashioned pistol kept by Sir Digby 
had disappeared from its place soon after his 
niece came to Abbey Court, and probably the 
young lady knew where it was. Besides, if 
she were not guilty, why had she run away to 
Weymouth, instead of letting the police know 
what had happened ? 

Christopher Race and Paul Western 
listened to these scraps of information, for 
they wished to know something about the 
case before going to the coroner's inquest. 
The more they knew, the more clearly would 
they understand how to go to work, they said 
to each ether. But five minutes of such 

L\ 1 1 I :i I I I _' 




gossip sufficed, and then they were off in 
Scarlet Runner for the Bell Buoy Inn, 

A crowd stood before the door ; the bar 
was thronged, and men packed shoulder to 
shoulder, talking in low, eager tones, blocked 
the dim hall ; but Christopher and Western 
contrived to squeeze through as far as a door 
kept by a big policeman. They knew that 
behind that closed door the coroner's inquest 
was in full swing, 

** We must be allowed to pass," Western 
said, imperatively* 

This would not have been Race's way ; 
but Western had taken the initiative, 

4< Impossible, sir," replied the representa- 
tive of the law, " Room's crammed. There 
isn't space for one more, let alone two/' 

11 But we* re important witnesses," urged 

The big man grinned. "If Fd let in every 
man Jack— and every woman Jill, for the 
matter o J that — who said they were important 
witnesses I should have let in half the town/ 1 
he returned, calmly. "They've 
got witnesses enough in there, 
and too many, maybe, for that 
poor girL" 

*' If you mean Miss Plan- 
tagenet," said Western* 
quickly, M I intend to marry 

As he spoke he looked 
defiantly at Christopher, who, 
though audacious himself, 
was astonished at this 

The manner of the police- 
man changed. "Oh, very 
well, sir, if you are Miss Plan- 
tagenet's intended husband, 
that alters the case. You had 
better write that on a card, 
and I'll send it in* Then 
you and your friend will pro- 
bably be admitted," 

Thus Western had in an in- 
stant become, of the pair, the 
person of paramount import- 
ance. Triumphant, he drew 
out a visiting-card and scrib- 
bled something upon it. The 
policeman opened the door 
wide enough to pass this to 
a comrade, and a few 
minutes later the coroner's 
officer was ushering the two 
young men into the crowded 
coffee-room + They were led 
to a position near the long 

Digitized byLit 

table headed by the coroner, and their pulses 
quickened as they saw the girl, found again, 
and more beautiful than on the night when 
they had lost her. 

She had asked to make a statement, and, 
though advised by the coroner to keep 
silence, had persisted, pleading that she had 
nothing to conceal She was speaking as 
Christopher and Western took their places ; 
and, seeing them, so bright a colour sprang to 
her white face that the young men knew they 
had been recognised. 

The girl did not falter for an instant, how- 
ever, but went on nervously, excitedly, deny- 
ing that she knew anything of the old- 
fashioned pisto 1 kept in her uncle's study- 
beyond hearing from Honey that it had dis- 
appeared from its place. She did not take 
it ; she had been very unhappy in her uncle's 
house ; they had not had a quarrel on the 
night of his death, but there had been a 
distressing scene. 

" He called me into his study," she went 





on, "and said cruel things ; that I was care- 
less of his interests, that I was altogether a 
failure, and that I didn't deserve a penny of 
his money. I told him if he thought I was 
staying for that I would go ; if I hadn't hated 
to leave him alone in his gloomy house I 
would have gone long ago. Then he flew 
into one of his rages — terrible rages they 
were, mad rages, which always frightened me 
dreadfully, and made me believe that he 
really was a lunatic, as Honey and his wife 
used to say. This was the worst I had seen. 
Often he had struck— now he threatened to 
kill me. He said rather than I should leave 
his house and carry evil reports, he would 
shoot me. I rushed out of the room, scream- 
ing, for I believed he meant to keep his 
word, and I believe it still. I didn't know 
where to hide from him, for the lock on my 
door, as on most of the doors, was broken. 
Then I thought of the roof— a flat roof, 
with battlements ; and I ran through many 
passages till I came to the ladder - like 
stairway that leads to it. I climbed up, 
trembling, for I could hear my uncle calling 
my name and slamming doors. At the top 
I pushed back the rusty bolt and slipped 
out. I expected him to find me ; and I had 
not been hiding long when I heard two 
shots. I supposed he had fired them to 
terrify me. After that all was silent. I 
decided to wait, if I were not discovered, till 
dawn, when I would slip down, hoping my 
uncle might be asleep. I planned to go to 
Weymouth because it was a big town, and I 
knew a girl there who used to be at school 
with me in France. I didn't realize how 
weak my experience had made me. I meant 
to look for her. I never expected to feel so 
ill that I should have to go to an hotel or faint 
in the street. Oh, that awful railway journey 
to Weymouth " 

11 This is irrelevant," broke in the coroner. 
" You walked to a more distant railway 
station than Marae, and caught the first train 
to Weymouth, before Sir Digby's fate was 
known. But do you mean the jury to under- 
stand that you remained on the roof all night 
without being aware that your uncle was 

" I do," answered the girl " I dared not 
go down. Once, though, I hoped to be 
taken away." 

At this arose a whisper. What could the 
girl mean ? Was she, too, mad ? And had 
she expected miraculous aid ? She blushed 
and hesitated for the first time, wondering, 
perhaps, if she had done wrong in disregard- 
ing the coroner's cold caution. She knew 

by V_iOOgle 

that Ressler, the solicitor, had given evidence 
which told against her, and that since the 
two Honeys had spoken the faces of the 
jurymen had hardened. 

" While I was on the roof," she went on, 
faintly, in her uneasiness giving an air of 
artificiality to her statement, "soon after 
dark it must have been, a balloon came 
close to the house. Two young men were 
in it — gentlemen — and I begged them to 
save me. Their balloon was caught some- 
how in a tree, and they were so near for a 
minute that I hoped they could take me 
with them. They must have seen how 
frightened I was, and I think they meant to 
help, but a wind came and freed the balloon, 
whirling it out of sight, so they had no time." 

A titter of incredulous laughter among the 
onlookers interrupted her, and was quickly 
checked. But it had not died before 
Western, ignoring the formalities of a 
coroner's inquest, stepped forward. " They 
are here as witnesses ! " he exclaimed. " We 
are the two balloonists, my friend and I, 
and we can corroborate every word Miss 
Plantagenet has said. We can prove her 
innocence; for if she had murdered her 
uncle she would have known that his dead 
body was lying half out of his window, that 
we had probably seen it there, and she 
would have hidden herself instead of rushing 
towards us and begging that we would take 
her away." 

Twice the coroner strove to stop Western, 
but the tide of his indignant eloquence was 
not to be stemmed Margaret Plantagenet, 
flushed and grateful, moved aside, and the 
American was sworn as a witness. 

" You and your friend never saw Miss 
Plantagenet until the night in question?" the 
coroner asked. 

" No." 

"Then" — very slowly and distinctly — 
"how comes it that you should have de- 
clared, on your visiting-card which you sent 
in to me, that you were engaged to marry 
that young lady ? " 

At this question there was a stir in the 
room, and the jury gazed at Western with 
narrow eyes of distrust ; but he answered, 
unabashed : — 

" I didn't say I was engaged to marry her. 
If you look again, you'll see that I said I 
intended to marry her. I wrote that, so that 
I might have a chance to come in and give 
my evidence. But it is true. I do hope to 
marry Miss Plantagenet — hope it beyond 
everything. I shall propose to her on the 
first opportunity, and tell her that I fell in 





love at first sight with the sweetest, purest, 
most innocent girl I ever met. That girl a 
murderess ? My friend and I would have 
been fools even to think of such a thing — 
when we'd seen her face and heard her voice. 
I can prove every word I am going to say 
about my balloon, which took us over to 
Normandy before we could descend. The 
first thing we did was to catch a train back 
and scour the country in my friends auto- 
mobile, looking for the lost girl and the lost 
house ; we couldn't locate them exactly. 
We learned what we wanted to know only 
by the paper to-day. VVe were never nearer 
the house at Abbey Court than being caught 
in a tree ; we didn't descend ; the dead body 
in the window was a mystery to us. But 
I would wager my dearest possession — which 
is my balloon — that that pistol you were talk- 
ing about dropped out of the dead man's 
hand when he had shot himself in his frenzy, 
and fell into the hushes under the window 

Vol. axxiii. — 3- 

where he lay- I advise you to send and look 
for it" 

So frank, so enthusiastic, and so romantic- 
ally handsome was Paul Western, the famous 
balloonist, whose name nearly everybody 
knew, that he carried all before him. Perhaps 
it was largely due to his evidence, and the 
fact that his belief in the girl's innocence was 
unassailable, that the coroner's jury brought 
in their verdict at last: "Suicide whilst 
temporarily insanei" 

Christopher admired Paul Western more 
than ever, freely admitted that his was the 
"first right," fairly won, and after all was 
glad to think that he had helped him 
win it. 

And Western did win the girl ; it would be 
strange if he had not, It would also have 
been strange if Christopher had not been 
asked to be best man at the wedding, which 
was delayed imfi! after his return from a 

The Making of the State School -Teacher. 

By Dr, Macnamara, M*P, 

WfT^feHlOUGH and hard indeed were 
the experiences of the pupil- 
teacher apprentice up to 
within recent times. 1 was 
myself apprenticed in 1875 in 
an ordinary elementary school 
at Kxeter. The master, one of the cleverest 
working teachers who ever stood up with 
chalk and duster in his hand, picked me out 
of the top class of the school as a promising 
lad. My parents agreeing, behold me at a 
little over twelve years 
of age a full-blown 
" monitor," teaching a 
class of boys, some of 
them bigger than myself, 
for the modest sum of 
one shilling a week. I 
am convinced that my 
blundering beginnings 
must have imparted an 
undying hatred of school 
in the breasts of my 
pupils. Certainly they, 
on their part, promptly 
made me loathe the 
whole thing. However, 
one was ambitious; one's 
parents were poor; and 
one was determined to 
get on. So "the stout 
heart to the stey brae." 
The teaching neophyte 
taught all day long as a 
full - blown and respon- 
sible teacher. He stayed 
at the school all day 
long as a rule, brewing himself a cup 
of cocoa at midday. At five he tramped 
home and ground away al his home lessons 
for three or four hours. His schoolmaster 
was compelled to give him one hour's 
instruction daily ; and this was usually taken 
in the early morning before the school met 
at nine. It is thus seen that the little chap 
was committed day by day to a full and 
exacting round of toil and drudgery, Of 
course it killed many, and many more were 
invalided and gave up But those who won 
through became very fine working teachers 

After a year of "monitorship'' the aspirant 

passed a further year as * 4 candidate on pro- 
bation/' By this time he might be getting 
eighteenpence or two shillings a week, He 
would be teaching all day and grinding at 
his home-lessons all night. At the close of 
this year's work would come the first annual 
Government examination. If he passed this 
ordeal successfully, and satisfied the doctor 
as to his soundness of wind and limb, he 
would be duly bound over as an apprentice 
for five years. Day by day he would receive 
an hours instruction from 
his head master ; teach 



Frvm a PAufu. by W, II. Jacob, Sandgate. 

in school from nine to 
twelve noon and from 
two to four-thirty ; after 
which he would go home 
and "swat" away at his 
home - work. At the 
close of every year would 
come a stiff Government 
examination j and if he 
came to grief at either of 
these his career as a 
teacher was at an end. 
For wages he received a 
sum beginning at about 
half a crown a week in 
his first year, and wind- 
ing up with ten shillings 
a week in his fifth. When 
I look back upon it all 
I am filled with indig- 
nation at the way the 
authorities used to get 
the work of adult respon- 
sible teachers done on 
the cheap by little, struggling, eager drudges. 
Many of them, as I have said, it killed or 
crippled. Many more taught so well and so 
gallantly all day long that they hadn't the 
physical and intellectual vigour necessary for 
the proper prosecution of their studies at 
night Hence they broke down at one of 
the annual Government examinations and 
were cynically cast aside. 

Besides all the school teaching and the 
private study for the annual pupil-teachers' 
examination, it was necessary to carry on a 
sort of ancillary grind for Science and Art 

SaTO^^ thaUdllowed 



each hard upon the heels 
of the other, at the close 
of the five years of appren- 
ticeship there was the 
"Queen's Scholarship" Ex- 
amination — a great and 
important function, the 
very name of which I 
breathe to-day with awe. 
All the pupi I -teachers in 
the land came up for this 
at the close of their appren- 
ticeships. If they passed 
in the first or second class 
they were entitled to a State 
bursary to carry them for 
two years to a training col- 
lege for teachers. But as 
the training college accom- 
modation was very limited, 
and there were, and still 
are, religious difficulties, 
the "Queen's Scholarship" 
was a delusion and a snare 
to all save the few who got 
into the first class or high 
up in the second class. 

Now at the "Queen's 
Scholarship ,J examination 
you could be credited with 
marks for Science and Art 
certificates earned during 
the pupil-teacher appren 
t ices hi p. Behold the little 
juvenile drudge, then, 
rushing away on two or 
three nights a week to a local Science 
and Art class, extending his ordinary home- 
lesson grind well into midnight as a conse- 
quence. I see that I got certificates in 
physiography, acoustics, light and heat, 
mathematics, magnetism and electricity, and 
animal physiology during my apprenticeship, 
and completed also the teacher's " D " or 
drawing certificate by passing m the South 
Kensington second grade freehand drawing, 
geometrical drawing, line or perspective, 
drawing from models, and blackboard draw- 
ing. My " D" is dated December 4th, 1878, 
I was then seventeen and in the fourth year 
of my apprenticeship. 

Then, if everything had gone all right so 
far, came going to college. The young 
student had to pay an entrance fee of 
from ten to twenty pounds ; the Educa- 
tion Department furnished the rest. Two 
pleasant years of institutional life followed, 
years of great delight and profit to the pupil- 
teachers of the day of which I am writing. 





Frvm a Photo, by C. K*tpiw> KteUr, 

At the end of each year a really stiff " certifi- 
cate" examination had to be passed, and 
if the student was successful in the latter, 
he was then a fully "certificated" teacher, 
and could come out and earn eighty or ninety 
pounds a year a.s an assistant in a Board 
School. To get a first class in the second 
year's "certificate" examination was at that 
time quite up to a pass in intermediate arts 
at the London University. Very few of the 
students could do more than take the London 
Matriculation in their stride whilst at college, 
as the examinations ran on entirely different 
lines. But hundreds and hundreds, bitten 
with the habit of steady, orderly u swatting/' 
worked hard after leaving college, and spent 
their evenings taking London B.A.'s, M.A.'s, 
B , Sc .% an d even D. Sc p s, A 1 1 h on o u r to t hem ! 
They possessed qualities of fine, strenuous, 
continued application that I never did, 

I came up from Exeter to the Borough 
Road Training College early in January, 

1SS0. iMfeW^MlGAN 





Paddington, and a heavy pall of yellow 
January fog + The roar and turmoil ! The 
struggle for a four-wheeler ! The pale, inter- 
mittent flash of the street lamps through the 
stifling gloom ! The narrowness, shakiness, 
arid noisiness of the London growler ! Al! is 
so new and bewildering ! 

A new and fearful smell— that of fried fish* 
It is the Borough Koad + The cab draws up 
wheezily before a black, jail like building. 
The college, and my home for two years ! 
Educationally I am on sacred ground, allxrit 
the surroundings are, to a raw provincial, 
hideous. It was here, cheek by jowl with 
that festering 
slum of misery, 
Kell Street, that 
Joseph Lancaster 
opened his school 
a century ago, 
His school is now 
a training college 
for elementary 

I find the 
eighth landing. 
How cold and 
clammy! The 
newly - scrubbed 
floor is riot oven 
dry, and the nau- 
seating smell ol 
disinfecting soap 
pervades every- 
thing. My bed- 
room, a cheerless 
cubicle, six paces 
by three, A 
merry Yorkshire 

face grins over the top of the partition from 
the next cubicle and asks who I am ! 

Downstairs a hopeless maze of half-dark 
corridors and cheerless rooms. One of these 
poverty-stricken chambers serves a double 
purpose. It is a class room in working hours 
and a common-room out of them. Thank 
the Giver of all Mercies, it has a fire. Three 
or four of us drag the forbidding forms from 
the desks and draw them around it. The 
place smells of the week before last ; but the 
fire at least is cheerful. 

A bell just outside clangs for prayers in the 
dining-halk Formal supper has been an 
impossibility to-night. It is a large new room, 
cold as death ; but so brightly lighted that 
even the fog recedes half beaten. And these 
are the Borough Roadians, the " B T s n ! 
What fine, clean, healthy-looking lads ! What 
fortunes for themselves and their Empire 

these lads would make in the Colonies 1 But 
now for the first time since I left Exeter I 
am exalted out of my miserable self. One 
hundred and thirty trained young voices are 
singing M St. Peter ?t to some words I forget. 
What a moving effect 1 Listen to those 
Yorkshire basses and those clear Welsh 
tenors. What a volume of beauty and 
grandeur ! What a magnificent interpreta- 
tion of the true devotional emotion ! It was 
worth winning an entrance scholarship to 
hear. And so with a lighter heart up the 
sepulchral stone stairs^ past the convent-like 
iron gates, until the very much disinfected 

i r 




/Wh a Photo. by\ 

[G. a'i 

, IM, 


and very damp " landing " is reached* Let 
me seek what comfort there is in a very 
lough mattress and very cold and shiny 
sheets, while yet the singing lingers in my 

As to the tutors at the old Borough Road 
College (it is now the Borough Polytechnic, 
no less), the memory of one specially lingers 
most freshly in the memory — the principal, 
Mr. Curtis. The beginning and end of 
educational training with this most estimable 
gentleman was the work of learning by 
heart. He was a great historian, and the 
author of a small hook of " Dates M and a 
" Larger History," He would set us a page 
of M Dates :t and black-list us if in rehearsing 
the lesson we used the word " in " for "into." 
As an evidence of the abject stupidity into 
which this date 'earning reduced us, I recall 

'Wfeffi rfeftf had got to the 



last page ; and, one after the other, we were 
repeating to Mr, Curtis events chronicled as 
happening upon the given dates on that 
page* The book wound up with its final 
date something like this : — 

1870, May 1st — Outbreak of the Franco -German 

The man who had successfully recited this 
very last date upon this very last page had 
barely sat down when up sprang his next 
neighbour, quite mechanically, with : — 

Printed ami published for J. C. Curtis, Ii. A t , by 
Smith and Son t Stamford Street , S, E* 

For Mt. Curtis I gradually acquired 
the most sincere respect and admiration. 
Naturally, I chafed mightily over the crass 
stupidity of his K Dates" and "Larger History"; 
but his genuine simplicity of character, his 
dogged and patient industry, and his sterling 
rectitude of purpose have been a lasting 
exemplar with me. i% Rfptiez sans &sst }i was 
his motto. It has done more for many a 
mediocrity than the endowment with a large 
measure of genius. 

But, admirable in one way and another as 
were the mi nutritions of the various tutors 

Common, Battersea Park, and the then rural 
charms of Honor Oak, the old village of 
Pulwich, and so on. But in winter it was 
hideous* How I used to look in at the 
front windows of the little residences along 
the road to Clapham and envy the comfort 
of the neatly-tied curtain, the little choice 
plant in the window, the knick-knacks upon 
sideboard and mantel, the cheery little fire, 
and the inviting arm-chair. All this meant 
home and the touch of a woman's hand. 
College hopelessly lacked these- An austerely 
furnished reading-room had, it is true, just 
been opened, but even the student cannot be 
always reading. 

Compared with the wonderful flights of 
wit and humour perpetrated by under- 
graduates on the occasion of the public con- 
ferring of degrees at the older Universities, 
we of the old Borough Road were very 
homely and commonplace in our merry 
moments. A favourite pastime was the 
raiding at midnight of some other u landing " 
in a distant wing of the college. Stealthily, 
and with M nodings on '* save our nightshirts, 
we ran the gauntlet of the " officers' room " 

From (i Photo. &jr| 


[KF, FrifrdC^ 

and lecturers, the best training each man 
received— and this, of course, is equally true 
of all colleges — was from the other one hun- 
dred and twenty-nine. Two years at the 
old Borough Road was a fine chastening for 
any man. It put him through a fire that 
tested. As for the college itself, life in it 
was a hard experience. The only common- 
room was one of the class-rooms ; and a 
dreary place that was. It didn't much matter 
in the summer, for there were Clapham 

on the main ground-floor corridor (more than 
once did we annex a choice cold leg of mutton 
set for supper, whilst the officer in charge was 
piously in "at prayers," from this same officers 1 
room). Mounting to the scene of our attack, 
we silently ranged ourselves along the shaky 
and resounding wooden walls of the cubicles. 
Then — 

Tw-ft-i in Trafalgar's Hay, 


of us wTTukl lustily chant; and then 

Ell!IVE^Y^FlW»5(r d fists 




the partitions in a way that would have won 
the admiration of the best British drummer 
that ever whacked " Daddy, Mammy " out of 
the head of a kettledrum. When the roll 
of this thunderous accompaniment died away 
our leader would yell out the second line — 

We saw the Frenchmen lay, 
preparatory to another stage roll of affrighting 
ordnance. But he rarely ever got in a com- 
plete second line, for the angry students were 
by this time afoot with pillows, bolsters, and 
the like, and the fun waxed furious. I well 
remember one such carefully-planned raid. 
If was long after midnight and all was 
deathly still We had silently crept to the 
landing marked out for our attack, and as we 
stood with fists clenched and upraised, ready 
for the deafening roll, our captain at the 

us very much, since the study for the one 
examination was entirely different from that 
of the other. Besides which, though the 
first year college examination might serve 
some purpose in fixing our position as second 
year men, the second year college examina- 
tion could have no useful end whatever* So 
we revolted against it, and " guyed " a 
number of the questions. One was dear 
old Mr, Curtis's English paper, in which an 
annual feature was the request that we should 
each write a coherent piece of M composi- 
tion " bringing in each a number of given 
words. The test was" a really searching one 
and not to be trifled with. In our par- 
ticular year some of the words I remember 
were : " polemical, forensic, recondite, unex- 
ceptionable, nugatory, and some fifteen or 

From « Photv. If W. S. Stuart. Richmond, Surrey. 

word lustily commenced with a robustious 
portamento on the word " MVas." He got 
no farther. The men inside were silently 
waiting for us. Each had placed his chest 
of drawers so that the occupant of every 
room could stand just conveniently over the 
raiders- And as the voice fell on the open- 
ing ** Twas," so fell the full contents of 
twelve water jugs upon our twelve scantily- 
clad figures. What we did and said on that 
historic occasion must be told at some other 
time in some other place. 

That out humour was not all boisterous 
horseplay let another incident attest. It was 
the sweet pleasure of the British and Foreign 
School Society's College Committee to in- 
stitute an annual college examination a few 
days before the annual "certificate" examina- 
tion. This Solomon of a regulation incensed 

twenty others. Here is one actual answer 
written as a protest against holding the 
examination just as we were leaving college, 
and immediately before the very important 
u certificate }7 examination : — 

Once upon a lime John and Henry were brothers. 
One fine day John took Henry for a walk, and in tlic 
course of their rambles asked him In sjk 11 the follow- 
ing words -viz., polemical, forensic, recondite, un- 
exceptionable, nugatory, elc, , etc 

Thus the piece of coherent composition. 
The same set of examination papers, I re- 
member, was made to secure the ventilation 
of another grievance, At the end of our 
college careers each of us was presented with 
a "college testimonial," signed by the 
officers, and with a very ambitious woodcut 
representation,-, <jff,{-he college at the top, 
dr^o^™^ nobody since 


2 3 

the days of Joseph Lancaster ever remembers 
to have seen. For purposes of economy the 
body of the testimonial was printed, and 
specs were left for the addition of such 
attributive embellishment as was suited to 
the conduct and attainments of the recipient. 
Usually most of us got something like the 
following in script type : — 

Mr. is a very trustworthy, intelligent, and 

industrious young man, ami we can confidently 
recommend him. 

In one of the papers we had to describe 

the other has been understood. To-day the 
pupil-teacher is apprenticed at a much later 
age. Usually the age is sixteen; but occa- 
sionally in the rural areas the candidate is 
indentured between the ages of fifteen and 
sixteen. The present day pupil teachers are 
indentured for one, two, or three years, 
according to the age of admission. No 
longer are they teaching drudges all, day 
long. They teach half a day, and attend 
the other what is known as a "pupil- 
teacher centre " — a finely- organized, up-to- 

From a Photo, bjrj 


lOe, AenricA- 

the life and character of a certain historical 
personage— say Richard II L As a matter of 
fact, the "life and character" in question was 
that of a Biblical character ; but at forty-five 
I shrink from what was rare fun at twenty, 
The result was as follows : — 

Richard III. was a very trustworthy, intelligent, 
and industrious young man, and we can confidently 
recommend him. 

So much for the old method of making 
the State school-teacher I have dwelt upon 
it at length because, although the changes of 
the past ten years have been altogether on 
right and generous lines, the present system 
is so fundamentally the outcome of the past 
that the one will be better appreciated after 

date secondary school with, of course, a 
development on the pedagogic side. In 
many cases the present-day *' P.-T." — to adopt 
the phraseology of the profession — matricu- 
lates while in his apprenticeship At the 
last June London Matriculation Examination 
there were a hundred and ninety-one first- 
class passes won by students, from schools all 
the world over. Of these the pupil-teacher 
centres of England and Wales scored thirty - 
one. There were one thousand one hundred 
and fifty-six second-class passes* The pupil - 
teacher centres carried off two hundred 
and thirty-eight 

Usually the'rifbDflfcfrpupil teacher of to- 
day goCT]|^OT4f!^^ 

- I 



school with a scholarship to a high 
school far two or three years before 
being indentured. He therefore starts 
with a far finer educational equipment 
than his prototype of the sixties, seventies, 
and eighties. He is also paid rather more 
in the way of salary. During his shortened 
apprenticeship he will earn from ten to 
thirty pounds a year, the amount, of course, 
increasing with his service. There still 

Welsh Matriculation, the Royal University of 
Ireland Matriculation, or, indeed, any corre- 
sponding success approved by the Board of 
Education, as entitling to admission to a 
training college. 

The training-college course — and there 
are now "day " as w*ell as " residential " 
colleges — may be for either two or three 
years ; and provision is made for enabling 
the promising student to spend the third 

From a Photo fry] 


[A. Hofoorn* Bri*ol 

remains the final examination, success in 
which is theoretically supposed to secure ad- 
mission to a State-aided training college (I use 
the word "theoretically" advisedly, because 
the lack of training-college accommodation 
and the religious difficulty still rob many a 
deserving pupil-teacher of the training he has 
so well earned). It is now, of course, known 
as the " King's Scholarship." But so 
rationalized has the scheme of the Board 
of Education now become that in lieu of 
success in the " King's Scholarship n the 
pupil- teacher — or, indeed, any young person 
who lias not been a pupil-teacher, but is 
willing to enter into a bond to serve as an 
elementary school-teacher — -may offer success 
in either the Oxford or Cambridge Senior 
Local, the London Matriculation, the Victoria 
(Manchester) Preliminary, the Manchester, 
Liverpool, or Yorkshire Colleges Matricula- 
tion, the Birmingham Matriculation, the 

year in Continental educational institu- 
tions. The college fees paid by the 
students are higher than in the old time. 
Some of the colleges charge an entrance 
fee ranging from five to twenty-five pounds ; 
and there is usually an annual payment 
required ranging from five to thirty pounds 
a year Full particulars about all these 
matters can be obtained by anyone interested 
from the Board of Education, For some 
years the Board encouraged the Idea of the 
normal student working at one and the same 
time for his University degree and his 
teacher's certificate* Recently, however, class 
prejudice has once again more or less 
supervened, and obstacles have been put in 
the way of this most desirable arrangement. 
Notwithstanding all this, many students— 
especially those who go to the normal depart- 
ments which have been opened in connection 

wi ^iNMR:WMcfflS^f^ manage to 



complete their University degrees before 
leaving college, and many more are well 
on with Art or Science degrees before 
their term of normal training is completed. 
Note the result. Quite ten years ago I took 
the trouble to count, and 1 found that one 
London Board teacher was a D.Sc, (of 
London), five were B,Sc. ? s, ten were M.A/s, 
seventy -six were B.A.'s, five were B.A/s 
and B.Sc.'s, two were LLB.'s, and two were 
Mils. Bac.'s. By to-day you may pretty 
well multiply the figures three or four fold 
all round. 

One or two final reflections* Teaching is 
a pretty good calling for a girl. It is no 
doubt exacting and toilsome, and great 
patience and physical endurance are essential. 
But, having regard to the emolument offered, 
it provides about as good an opening for a 
girl who has to earn her living 
as there is going. It is em- 
phatically not so promising 
for a boy, The 
chances of promo 
tion are few. 

Providence not 
having designed 
so ready a means 
of exit from the 
vocation as in the 
ease of women, 
the emoluments 
offered are meagre 
so far as the great 
majority of the 
men teachers are 
concerned* and 
there is nothing 
like the material 
return for enter- 
prise, application, 
and industry that 
is possible in 

commercial and business life. Indeed, I am 
well within the mark when I say that if the 
average elementary schoolmaster put into 
business half the care, devotion, and assiduity 
he is bound to put into his teaching, he 
would be able to retire at fifty on a much 
more generous competency than a grateful 
State will furnish him with at sixty-five in the 
shape of a small superannuation allowance, 
most of which he will have himself to provide 
in annual premium payments deducted com- 
pulsorily from his usually meagre stipend, 

Besides, women are rapidly elbowing men 
out of the work altogether. Already in 
America the generic term for teacher is 
" she," Shortly the same will be true over 
here. In 1850, of every four elementary 
school-teachers, three were men and one 
was a woman. By 1870 the women have 
drawn abreast of the men. 
And to-day, of every four 
elementary school - teachers, 
three are women 
and one is a man. 
Further, it is worth 
noting that this 
change is now 
proceeding with 
rapidly increasing 
momentum. When 
I turn to the pupil- 
teachers of 1906 
I find that twenty 
thousand are girls 
and four thousand 
boys. So there 
are really silent 
influences at 
work more potent, 
perhaps, than 
those dreamt of 
by the Suffra- 


VoLxxxiii— ■ 

by Google 

Original from 

Tke Piiim&clle Pris©fl&. 

By A. E. Johnson. 

I was following, 
fire, there was no 
I walked alone, 

EVER, I thought, had I pene- 
trated before into a place of 
such wild solitude. Above 
me, on either side of the deep 
ravine, huge pinnacles towered 
loftily: grim precipices, 
smooth-shaven and sheer, that wore a frown- 
ing, sullen look. In places the impending 
masses, riven dim ages ago by the unseen 
axe of the thunder-god, were cleft from 
top to bottom, so that tall pillars of rock 
stood out in strange isolation. Vegetation, 
green and vivid, grew rank over all the 
floor of the ravine ; but notwithstanding its 
"gleaming luxuriance, the enclosing mountain 
walls, black and barren, struck a note of such 
loneliness and gloom as filled me with a 
vague sense of oppression and foreboding. 

Save for an eagle hovering far overhead, 
so nearly motionless that it seemed to be 
hung in the sky, and the lizards that darted 
across the path which 
like flashes of iridescent 
sign of life around me. 
my tread falling soft and noiseless upon the 
yielding sand of a stream's dry bed. 

A huge boulder of rock presently blocked 
the way, compelling me to turn aside. What 
lay on the farther side I could not see, but, 
all unsuspecting, 1 climbed the bank to 
circumvent it 

As I did so three men leaped suddenly to 
their feet and faced me. Evidently they had 
been hidden behind the impeding mass, but 
for the moment they seemed to my startled 
eyes to have sprung out of the ground. 
The naked knives which they held in their 
hands — they had been sharpening their 
weapons upon the rock — gave added effect 
to their dramatic apparition. 

We eyed each other curiously. Two of 
the three were garbed in much the same 
fashion as the ordinary peasant of Thessaly, 
and carried the shepherd's coat of coarse hair 
hung from one shoulder. But for the knives 
in their hands, and the other weapons of cold 
steel which were stuck into their girdles, they 
might have passed for villagers from the 
plain below. 

Their leader, however — as I judged the 
third to be — was of another stamp. A tall 
man, fierce of mien, with the eyes of a hawk 
and a nose curved into a predatory hook, he 
was dressed as a mountaineer. Handsomely 

dressed, too, with a kilt and shirt of fine 
linen, and much elaborate embroidery upon 
his sleeveless jacket and the round cap which 
was perched at a rakish angle on his head. 
In keeping were the gorgeous mountings of 
the dagger-hilts which protruded, along with 
a pistol-butt, from the broad coloured sash 
round his waist. 

It leaped to my mind at once that I had 
stumbled into a bandits' ambuscade. These 
hills of Thessaly — on the southern fringe of 
the rugged mountain range beyond which lay 
lawless Macedonia — were the haunt, I knew, 
of outlaws and brigands without number. 
The evident surprise with which I was 
regarded, however, assured me that the 
encounter was accidental rather than planned, 
and it was possible, under the circumstances, 
that I might be allowed to pass unmolested. 

The chief returned my salute, though surlily. 
He eyed me fiercely, as though bent on 
reading my mind, but said nothing. I took 
this to indicate an attitude of non-hostility, if 
not of actual friendliness, but when I made 
as though to pass he stepped in front of me. 
His followers fell in behind him and stood 
across the path. 

" You travel far, kyrie ? " said the bandit, 
with a note of interrogation. He spoke 
courteously, though his manner and pose were 

" To Trikkala," I answered. 

Over the chiefs shoulder I saw the two 
others exchange a quick glance as I pro- 
nounced the name of the Thessalian town. 
Their leader's countenance remained im- 

As he asked no further questions, I made 
a step forward. " A far journey, and I must 
needs go on," I said, with a gesture of fare- 
well. " Addiol" 

The bandit stared at me with knitted 
brows, but for the moment did not stir. I 
made another movement. Then, as though 
coming to a sudden decision, he took a pace 
to one side. 

"Addio!" he repeated, raising his cap 
with a bow. 

At the same time he made a sign to his 
followers, who stepped apart and left the 
path free. Warily, but with as much out- 
ward unconcern as I could muster, I went 

As I paM^lirhdt^rgyffii them, the man upon 





my left made a sudden motion with 
his hand. Instinctively I turned 
inalf round to face him. As I did so 
T heard the chief rap out a word sharply, 
and simultaneously, before I could make 
even an attempt at resistance, a sharp 
tug at my coat-collar jerked me backwards, 
and a violent kick knocked my feet from 
under me. In a moment I was down on 
the ground, my head aching from the severe 
blow it had received in my fall, with the 
bandit who had stood on my left firmly 
seated astride my chest and gripping my 
arms, while his companion, who had so neatly 
brought me down, pinioned my legs and 
made kicking impossible. 

As I lay there helpless the chief gazed 
upon me with a look half malignant, half 
contemptuous. He said nothing, but made 
a quick gesture, indicating to his followers 
that they were to remove me, In doing so 
he threw out his right arm, pointing out the 
spot to which he wished me taken. 

Instinctively I followed the motion with 
my eyes, and at sight of the outstretched 
hand (which previously I had not noticed) 
with difficulty suppressed a cry of fear and 
surprise. Three fingers alone were visible at 
its extremity, and of these the middle was 
twisted and bent into a horrid deformity. 

Of thumb and little finger there was 
no vestige, save a squat and ugly stump 
which took the place of the former. 

I knew now with whom I had 
to deal Of all the bandits in- 
festing these mountain lairs 
none had a more evil notoriety 
than he nicknamed a Three 
Fingers,* 1 an outlawed villain 
upon whose head, for his in- 
famies, a price — and a large one 
— had been set. Many tales 
were rife about him amongst the 
peasantry ; and I was quick to 
recognise the mutilated hand, 
deformed (so the story went) at 
birth, which lent, in the popular 
eye, such a sinister and bizarre 
touch to his personality. 

The tlisi 1 1 very was no plea 
sant one. This IS Three Fingers " 
had a reputation more than evil 
What his purpose with me might 
be I could not tell, but the 
record of his dealings with cap- 
tives—often had I heard it re- 
peated — was far from reassuring. 
Stones of barbarities practised 
upon prisoners were frequent, 
and in the event of ransom being 
delayed, as in my case I fore- 
saw would be extremely probable, there was 
a likelihood not only of mutilation, but of 
murder The unprofitable captive has little 
chance of escape. Dead men tell no tales, 
and he is an unwise brigand who runs 
unnecessary risks. 

Deftly securing my hands and feet with 
cord, the two ruffians who had thrown me 
to the ground, in obedience to their leader's 
sign, picked me up and carried me to the 
shade of a small clump of trees which grew a 
short distance from the path. Here, tethered 
to a sapling, was a sturdy mountain pony 
which previously I had not observed — 
presumably the mount of the bandit chief 
— and hard by, at the foot of one of the 
trees, my bearers flung me doivn uncere- 
moniously. They returned then to their 
leader, and all three sat again beneath the 
rock beside which I had surprised them. 
The tops of their heads were just visible 
above the intervening bushes. 

My plight, as I lay in bondage, seemed 
dire enough. Little clemency was to be 
expected from my captors ; indeed, so long 
as I remained in their hands my life, I knew, 
was momentarily in the most imminent peril. 
My only hope lav in escape — a counsel of 




perfection ! Even were my hands and feet 
not lashed together with stout cord, how 
could I hope successfully to outdistance, in 
this wild region, over a rough and unknown 
path, these girt mountaineers, deep-chested 
and long of limb? Moreover, I was un- 

As I pondered thus gloomily, my glance, 
travelling curiously round, fell upon the 
saddle of the tethered pony, which had been 
taken from the animal's back and lay beside 
it on the ground. Stitched to the outside of 
one flap was a pocket, or sheath, and into 
this was stuck a small dagger, or knife. The 
sight of it gave a sudden quickening to my 

Inch by inch, with cautipus haste, I 
wormed myself nearer and nearer to the 
saddle. Once a bandit rose to stretch himself, 
and threw a careless glance towards me. I 
lay like a log, and the slight alteration in my 
position escaped his notice. Presently my 
head was resting on the saddle, and I could 
touch the knife-hilt with my mouth. Closing 
my teeth upon it, with a sudden jerk of the 
head and a half-raising of my body upon one 
elbow, I plucked the blade out. 

With some difficulty, holding the knife in 
my teeth, I managed to cut the knots that 
bound me. This done, I slowly dragged 
myself along the ground until, with out- 
stretched knife, I was able to sever the rope 
by which the pony was tethered. Then, 
keeping hold of the halter with one hand, 
I prepared to rise to my feet in readiness for 
mounting, taking care to screen my move- 
ments as far as possible from the group under 
the rock. But I had forgotten to reckon 
with the pony's temper. Quiet enough 
hitherto, at *the pull of my hand upon the 
head-rope he grew restive, shifted his ground 
uneasily, and whinnied. 

I heard a sharp exclamation and saw the 
bandits leap to their feet. Savagely cursing 
the pony's impatience, with a sudden rush I 
vaulted on to the brute's back before it could 
break away. It was a good spring ; but a 
man, as is proved again and again in 
moments of emergency, never knows what 
he can do till he tries — or has to. 

A bullet sang overhead, and the loud 
report of the chiefs pistol caused my startled 
steed to swerve in his flight with a sudden 
snort. Momentarily I expected him to 
stumble, but, clutching the reins, I managed 
to wrench him towards the path. The way, 
however, was barred by one of the villains, 
who had run forward to intercept me, and 
now had the evident intention of stopping 

my headlong course. The recollection 
flashed upon me that I had seen no fire- 
arms on his person, and, acting on a sudden 
determination, I rode without hesitation, 
though an ugly blade gleamed in his hand, 
full tilt at him. He stood in the middle of 
the path, and to have attempted to avoid 
him would have been to risk a fall in the 
rough and rock-strewn ground on either side. 

The fellow had pluck. With his knife in 
readiness, he stood his ground and awaited 
the charge with the cool nerve of a toreador 
expecting the rush of the bull. Knowing 
that I was unarmed, he intended, I could 
guess, to stab me as I passed, and perhaps 
drag me to the ground. 

I rode straight at him. But, though I 
hoped to charge him down, I leaned forward, 
watching his eye, in readiness for the quick 
dodge to one side which I anticipated he 
would make. It came, sure enough ; and at 
the same moment my fist shot out and caught 
him full in the face. I have a long reach, 
and, nimble though he was, I hit him before 
he had time to lunge, or even raise his knife. 
The impetus of my furious charge gave the 
blow a sledge-hammer force, and as I swept 
by with an exultant yell (my blood was up) 
I saw the fellow knocked like a ninepin clean 
off the path into a prickly bunch of cactus, 
where he lay senseless. 

A second bullet hummed over my head, 
and behind me I heard curses and threats 
being howled in fury. Glancing over my 
shoulder, I saw the bandit chief, smoking 
pistol in hand, black rage distorting his face, 
striding in pursuit, while in his rear the com- 
rade of the fellow I had smitten with my fist 
followed close. In the long, swinging stride 
of the mountaineer they loped over the diffi- 
cult ground at a dogged and dangerous pace. 

I think the memory of that reckless, head- 
long flight will stick in my mind for ever. I 
am a fairly good rider, but to keep a bare- 
back seat, upon an animal mad with fright, 
and stretched at a panic gallop over a 
stony, twisting mountain path, was a feat 
of horsemanship which, under other cir- 
cumstances, I could scarcely have achieved. 
As to guidance, I let the brute have his 
head, well content that he should go his 
fiercest pace, and trusting to his native 
surefootedness to avoid mishap. 

Plunging wildly forward, in a few minutes 
I had traversed the length of the ravine, 
reaching a point where the path made a 
sharp bend round a projecting shoulder of 

Ahead ' ::: '!M^ fifcother reach of the 





a rpick'i.v hunch op cactus. "* 

ravine, black, frowning, and gloomy as 
before. Eagerly I scanned the prospect 
before me f and as I did so my eye fell 
upon a curious object Some half a mile 
distant, at the right-hand side of the gorge, 
there rose one of those tall, isolated columns 
or pillars of rock which gave, as I have 
already noted, such a curious aspect to the 
surrounding scenery. Straight and tall it 
stood, sheer sided and smooth, like the rock- 
hewn chimney of some huge subterranean 
furnace, and perched 011 its summit, over- 
hanging its very edge, a house. So at least 
it appeared, with brown walls and red- 
tiled roof, though on so strange a site it 
scarcely seemed possible a human habitation 
could have been built. 

Pulled to imagine how access could be 
obtained to this curious stronghold — for the 
sides of the rock-pilhir were sheer precipices 
upon which not even a goat could have 

found a foothold — I per- 
ceived, as I drew near, a 
rope, having a large hook 
at its end, which dangled 
over the face of the cliff, 
apparently passing through 
a pulley block suspended 
from the beam of a shed 
which jutted out, over the 
abyss, from the crest of the 
rocL A second glance re- 
vealed a narrow ledge which 
ran transversely across the 
face of the cliff, a short 
distance above the ground, 
and furnished a footway, 
rudely fenced in with rough 
boards for safety, to a 
vertical cleft in the rock, 
wherein a clumsy ladder of 
wood could be espied. 

As I noted these things 
there jumped to my mind 
a probable explanation of 
the singular place before 
me. I had read mare than 
on ce of the rock monasteries 
of Thcssaly, and recently, 
though 1 had not actually 
viewed any, I had heard 
much about them. At Kala- 
baka, a village on the out- 
skirts of the mountains, not 
many miles distant, there* 
was a whole community, 
I knew, of these peculiar 
medieval hermitages, each 
built high upon the flat- 
topped summit of a lofty pinnacle, and 
accessible only by means of rude scaling- 
ladders bolted to the face of the precipice or 
suspended from above, or by journeying aloft 
through mid-air at the end of a rope hauled 
up by the monks. 

Was the place inhabited? The ladder, 
and especially the dangling rope, seemed to 
suggest it. On the other hand, not a vestige 
of a living thing was visible. There was a 
chance, moreover, that the ancient building 
had been appropriated by the bandits. A 
more fitting place for a robbers' lair could 
hardly be imagined* The wider berth I give 
it, I thought to myself, the better ; and smote 
the flank of my steed with a heavy hand. 

It was an evil inspiration. The frightened 
beast answered the blow with a sudden plunge ; 
then, in one moment, struck a hoof upon a 
loose stone, stumbled, and pitched violently, 



path. Shot like a pebble from a sling, I was 
hurled through the air, and turning a somer- 
sault fell on my back amongst a dense clamp 
of bushes* from which, so tightly was I 
wedged, it was some few minutes before I 
could extricate myself and struggle to my 

Dire dismay filled me. At my feet lay the 
luckless pony, stone-dead, with a broken 
neck ■ and flight upon foot, I well knew, was 
hopeless. But in my extremity a sudden 
thought came to me. I lifted my eyes and 
gazed at the little building perched above me 
on the height of its towering natural column. 
What if I should take shelter there ? I had 
nothing to lose, perhaps much to gain, by 
essaying to climb the rock. If it were in- 
habited, I would throw myself upon the 
mercy of the dwellers ;. if not, it was possible 
I might find a hiding-place. At all events, I 
should gain a brief respite, and have time to 
collect my wits. 

scrambling, run- 
ning, staggering, 
I crossed the in- 
tervening rocks 
and scrub, and, 
reaching the 
base of the great 
pillar, made a 
dash for the ram- 
shackle flight of 
wooden steps 
propped against 
the face of the 
cliff, which gave 
access to the 
fenced-in ledge 
that I had seen 
from the path 
below. Clamber- 
ing hastily up 
this staircase, I 
ran along the 
ledge, and so came to the 
bottom of the vertical cleft 
in which was wedged the 
long wooden ladder. Over- 
head I could espy a trap-door 
in a little platform of massive 
beams which was built across 
the cleft and blocked it. 

I doubt if an ape could 
have scaled that ladder with 
more surprising agility than 
I. In a few moments I had 
reached the top, A heavy 

bolt was fastened to the under side of 
the trap-door, but this was not secured, and 
putting up my hand I gave a push, The 
door resisted. I pushed again, stepping on 
to a higher rung and exerting all my strength, 
The lid yielded — but an inch only ! The 
click of metal told of a lock on the other 
side, probably as strong as the door itself 
was massive, and I realized, with a horrible 
sensation of sickness, that to force an 
entrance was impossible, 

I battered with my hands upon the heavy 
lid, rattling it to and fro till the bolts clattered 
and shook, but no answer came. What to 
do ? The bandits would arrive before long, 
and ihey had but to look up to discover me 
wedged in the cleft of the rock— plain to ihe 
eye and a pretty target for pistol practice. 

I seized the iron ring which was screwed 
into the under side of the trap-door and, 
with a strength made almost superhuman by 

despair, I shook 
the wooden slab 
till the frame- 
work shivered. 
The bolts and 
hinges clanked 
noisily, hut with* 
stood my utmost 
violence stoutly* 
No answer came 
from within, 

A faint shout 
from the valley 
reached me. My 
pursuers were up 
with me already : 
they had found 
the dead body 


of the 

a few moments 
they would dis- 
cover me. With 
furious energy I 
shook again tin- 
solid lid above 
me, and in a wild, insen- 
sate passion beat upon 
its rough surface till my 
hare fists bled. 

In the midst of this 
final spasm I heard a soft thud 
Mr mi: til,- woodwork as of a heavy 
footfall. My heart stood still - 
in very fact, I believe — and I 
paused in my hammering to 
listen. There was the sharp 
click of a bolt being shot back, 
tenftUm, .and slowly, its 

nr MY hands 

IIJ.A-. V I.1D." 



3 1 

hinges creaking, the trap-door was lifted. 
Even as I sprang up the ladder, and 
bending my head pushed upwards with all 
the force my shoulders could muster, there 
came a savage howl from below, Next 
moment I heard the sharp impact of a bullet 
upon the rock a few inches below my feet* 
and a moment later the report of a pistol 
reached my ears. With a fierce spring I 
thrust head and shoulders through the open- 
ing as the trapdoor fell back, and, gripping 
the skies, dragged my legs after. At a touch 
the heavy lid slammed 
to, and as I lay across it, 
exhausted, with the sweat 
pouring off my face, I 
feverishly pushed home 
the long bolts that 
secured it 

In my gasping relief at 
rescue I had lost thought 
of my timely deliverer. 
As I regained breath, 
however, the shadow 
lying athwart the floor in 
front of me recalled me 
to my senses, and I rose 
to confront the gaunt 
and silent figure of an 
aged monk. 

I .can, ascetic, garbed 
in a gown soiled with 
many stains, a shabby 
woollen cap untidily con- 
fining his long and un- 
kempt silver locks, he 
looked, with his patri- 
archal beard, the very 
figure of a hermit But 
though outwardly of 
somewhat ill -favour, 
there was yet that in 
his level look and the unruffled calm with 
which he wafted for me to speak that caught 
my fancy. A man of collected mind t evi- 
dently, for, though it must have been {>atent 
that happenings unusual were toward, he 
showed no signs of fluster or alarm. 

Without ceremony, in stumbling Greek I 
told, as briefly as might be, the story of my 
encounter with the bandits, my capture, 
escape, and flight. He listened impassively, 
gravely inclining his head to my request for 
shelter and protection. It had been on my 
tongue's tip to make the request a demand, 
but it seemed the part of prudence to use 
first soft words. I had no mind for harsh 
measures, save under necessity. 

Even as I spoke there was an ominous 

sound of creaking wood, and a moment later 
came a battering on the trap- door at our feet, 
I glanced with apprehension at the fasten- 
ings, but the bolts were securely shot, and, 
remembering my own futile efforts to burst 
them, I felt assured that for the present the 
defence there was safe. 

At the first rap the monk, silent still, 
placed a finger upon his lips and tip-toed 
noiselessly away, beckoning me to follow, 
('limbing a few steps cut in the rock, we 
crossed the open platform which formed the 

] in-: ujni; bOLTs. 

summit of the huge stone pillar, and entering 
the little monastery came to a lofty shed, 
which terminated in a rude balcony, over- 
hanging the face of the cliff. 

In the middle of the floor was a monstrous 
windlass, fitted with long bars like a ship's 
capstan. Round its drum was coiled a stout 
hempen rope, of which the free end was 
drawn across the shed and passed through 
the pulley- block hanging above the balcony. 
I guessed at once that this was the apparatus 
by which the monks had been wont to raise 
and lower themselves, or their goods, at the 
end of the rope I had seen from below 
dangling over the cliff, 

Motioning me to stay in the background. 



3 2 


leaning over the balustrade looked down. 
Presumably one only of my two pursuers had 
ascended the ladder to the trap-door, for as 
the monk peered over I heard a voice hail 
him from the depths. Of the conversation 
which ensued I could gather but an imperfect 
interpretation, for, though I could hear all 
the monk's replies, the bandit's shouted words, 
as I stood at the back of the shed, were only 
confusedly audible. 

The altercation was brief, and its ending 
abrupt. A shot rang out sharply, and a 
bullet splintered its way through the wooden 
tiles of the roof. The monk drew in his 
head quickly and turned towards me. 

" They seek your life, kyrie" he said. 

"So I believe," I replied, dryly. 

" And demand to be admitted," he added. 

"There was certainly a knocking on the 
door just now," I replied. 

For the moment the battering at the trap- 
door had ceased. 

The monk stroked his beard. 

" It is in my mind that I must needs admit 
them," he said, presently. 

" It is in mine that they must needs stop 

" If I refuse they will kill me." 

" /shall kill you if you attempt to accede." 
I took a couple of steps and stood before the 

The monk gravely nodded his head. 

" I do not wonder," he said. "You hold 
life dear." 

" And sell it dear," I added. 

He stroked his beard again, reflectively, 
then raised his woollen cap and scratched 
his matted head. 

" What is it that you intend to do, kyrie f " 
he asked, after a pause. 

I considered. The question was some- 
thing of a poser, for I had no plan formulated. 
The situation seemed, indeed, to be an 

" Hold the ruffians at bay until assistance 
comes," I said, at length. 

" Assistance ! Whence ? " He spread out 
his hands deprecatingly. " It is two kilo- 
metres to the nearest village, and think you 
that the men there would dare raise hand 
against him of the three fingers ? " 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

" Gladly would I help you, were it pos- 
sible," the montwent on, " for they are evil 
men — evil men and violent" 

" Also there is a price upon their heads," 
I put in. 

He looked quickly at me, and I saw 
cupidity in his eye. y G OQ g[ C 

" Five thousand drachmas, alive or dead," 
I added. 

" Five thousand drachmas," he repeated. 
« if » 

He broke off to listen. The battering 
upon the trap-door had begun again, muffled 
cries of rage mingling with the rattle and the 

" Is there no other way out ? " I demanded, 

" None save " He stopped short, 

sudden intelligence in his face, and seemed 
to be revolving some matter in his mind. A 
moment he stood thus, then turned to me 

" You have a knife ? " he asked. 

Puzzled, I produced from my pocket a 
heavy clasp-knife, opened the blade, and 
handed it to him. Snatching it from me, he 
dropped to his knees beside the great wind- 
lass and began to search eagerly amongst the 
coils of rope upon the drum for the end 
made fast thereto. This found, with a couple 
of vicious hacks he severed it. Then, run- 
ning to the balcony, he caught and pulled in 
the free rope-end, to which was attached the 
big iron hook that I had seen from below 
suspended over the cliff face, and beckoned 
me to come close. 

"There is still one chance of escape, 
kyrie" he said, " and by good fortune we 
may even have the enemy in a trap. Listen. 
I ganow to raise the trap-door and admit the 
men of violence. Take this rope in your 
hands, stand by the balcony here, and be in 
readiness when I give the signal to lower 
yourself over the edge of the rock. Your 
weight will cause the windlass to revolve, un- 
coiling the line, and so you will descend to 
the ground below. There is rope enough 
and to spare ; and the loose end which I have 
made with the knife will be held securely 
enough from slipping until you have reached 
the bottom. 

" So soon as you have landed, pull upon 
the rope till all has been unwound and falls. 
Then climb the steps and, passing along the 
ledge which you have already traversed, wait 
at the foot of the ladder which is lodged in 
the cleft. Fail not in anything I bid you." 

" And you ? " I asked, for I could not 
grasp the full import of the scheme. 

" Leave all to me, kyrie" was the answer. 
" Do as I bid you." 

With that he walked away, and mechani- 
cally I made ready to follow his instructions. 
It seemed a hazardous venture, but I could j 
perceive no alternative. I 

From my place at the balcony of the wind- 




lass shed I had a clear and uninterrupted 
view of the little platform* cut in the slope 
of the rock outside, to which thy trap-door 
above the ladder gave admittance. As I 
watched and waited I could see the monk 
stoop down and could perceive his lips 
moving. Evidently he was holding a parley 
with those beneath the wooden slab. Presently 
he straightened himself, turned towards me, 
and mutely raised his hand. 

It was the agreed signal Already I had 
looped the rope around my waist, hitching it 
securely with the hook at its extremity. Now, 
grasping it firmly atmve with both hands, 1 
stepped to the extreme verge 
of the rough timbers which 
made a floor to the jutting 

Turning my head for a 
last look I saw that the 
monk remained standing. 
He had made no motion to 
undo the trap-door, and a 
horrible suspicion flashed 
upon me. Had he betrayed 
me? Suppose it was his 
intention to rid himself of 
my unwelcome company by 
thus hurling me to my 
enemies, while he himself 
remained in his rocky fast- 
ness, immune behind his 
bolts and bars ? Was it to 
tell this devilish plan that 
he had stooped to speak 
through the trap-door ? 

For an instant I wavered. 
Beside me was the tempting 
security of the monastery 
floor; below gaped the 
hideous abyss. Should I 
step back, or risk all in 
one fearful plunge? 

For seconds that seemed 
hours I stood hesitating. 
What decision I might have 
come to I know not, but 
suddenly the crazy timber 
upon which I was poised 
*hilted in its worm-eaten 
socket. I lurched wildly to 
maintain my balance, swayed, tottered, and — 

For a few feet it was a sheer drop, and in 
the sickening sensation of bodily abandon- 
ment my brain reeled and I was close to 
swooning. Then the slack of the rope ran 
out, and my fall was arrested with a jerk so 
sharp that the cord under my arms was 

pulled tight and cut into my flesh. In fling- 
ing out my hands in the eager effort to save 
myself from overbalancing I had released 
my hold of the rope, but now> grasping it 
again, 1 was able to ease the pressure round 
my chest. My weight told, and the rope, 
slowly at first, but with gradually increasing 
speed, began to pay out. Overhead I could 
hear the groaning of the windlass as it 
revolved upon its rusty pivot 

To and fro I swayed in mid-air, now 
buffeted against the rou^h face of the 
precipice, so that my face and hands were 
torn and bleeding, now oscillating, pendulum- 


wise, from side to side. 
And though my eyes 
were fixed upon the 
rapidly lengthening 
stretch of rope above 
me, I could see the 
whole panorama of 
the valley rocking as 
I swung this way and that* 

Once I cast a look downward, but with 
such giddiness and nausea was I instantly 
affected that I was compelled to close my 
eyes, and came near to being physically sick. 
In that momentary glimpse, however, my 
horror had been threefold intensified, for as 
I saw the earthijff^jti^vf^iiftg motion, come 




rushing up towards me, I perceived that I 
was descending straight upon the upturned 
pointed ends of some faggots of wood which 
were stacked against the rock* I kept my 
eyes tight shut, and with bristling hair and 
quivering flesh waited for the shock which 
would end my fall 

But, by good fortune, at the crucial moment 
I muiit have swung clear of the threatening 
stakes, for I came down with a run upon a 
piled-up mass of brushwood which broke my 
fall, though it gave me a severe shaking and 
knocked the wind out of me For ihe 
moment, indeed, absurd as it may seem, 
I consciously thought that I had been 
stunned, and lay prostrate, gasping and inert. 

A .savage yell from aloft galvanized me 
into activity. Springing to my feet, I looked 
up to see an excited figure, leaning over the 
balcony of the windlass shed, 
lay hold with one hand of the 
rope which had lowered me 
(and was still hitched round 
me), while with the other he 
beckoned frantically to someone 
within — doubtless the chief, for 
whose pistol I was an easy mark 
while thus held a prisoner. 

Setting my feet against the 
rock, I took a linn grip of the 
rope with both hands and 
tugged. I saw the bandit lurch 
forward at ihe sudden strain, 
but he steadied himself, and, 
catching hold with his other 
hand, braced himself for a 
struggle, Yor a brief space 
ensued a grim and silent tug of 
war. But the advantage was 
mine, for I had a good pur- 
chase and a downward pull I 
could feel the rope slipping 
through his fingers. 

Of a sudden, in order to gain 
a counteracting purchase to 
mine, my op()onent raised one 
foot and planted it against the 
balustrade. Simultaneously 1 gave a sharp 
wrench to the rope. Ihe rotten bar, uncr[ual 
to the strain, snapped in two, and on llu- 
instant the bandit was pulled bodily over Mir 
edge- He let go the rope as he pitched for- 
ward and his hands clutched wildly at the air, 

I was watching when he felL A harsh 
scream broke from him, that grated on my 
nerves and made me shudder involuntarily; 
and as his body, with legs and arms out- 
spread, descended upon me I saw the look 
on his fare. It haunts me still. 

I was looking, I say, when he fell ; nor 
could I take my eyes away. I was fascinated, 
spellbound ; I could not stir from the sight 
of this awful thing which was approaching 
me from above. Had the body fallen right 
atop of me, I do not think 1 could have 
moved a hairs breadth to escape it. 

There was a muffled thud, and I felt my 
face and h.mds splashed with something 
warm. Turning, in two hounds I was up 
the flight of steps propped against the rock, 
and was fleeing in panic along the ledge 
across the cliff face. At the fpot of the 
ladder in the cleft I sank exhausted. I 
wonder that I did not shriek as 1 ran. 
Perhaps I did ; I cannot say. 

The slamming of the door overhead 
brought me to my senses, and looking up 
I perceived the monk at the top of the 

by Google 





ladder, busy with the bolt which secured the 
lid upon the under side. This fastened, he 
descended with a nimbleness surprising in 
a man of such aged appearance, and in a 
moment stood beside me. 

His face was still impassive, but a grim 
smile crept over it as he pointed upwards. 

" Trapped/' he said, laconically. 

" Trapped ? " I repeated. 

11 You pulled down the rope ? " he asked. 

I nodded. It had fallen with the body. 

" There are naught but these two ways of 
leaving the rock," he said. "Unless," he 
added, grimly, " one should choose to jump, 
or chance to fall off." 

I thought of what I had witnessed but two 
moments ago, and shuddered. 

" But the trap-door," I urged. " It would 
surely be possible with a little labour to force 
it open ? " 

" And of what avail," was the answer, " to 
open the trap-door if the ladder be not 

I began to comprehend. 

"The rope, kyrie" continued the monk, 
quickly. " Where is it ? " 

I had left it lying where it had fallen, but 
it was the work of a few moments only to 
clamber down and fetch it. Dragging the 
coils I returned to the cleft, where the monk 
awaited me. Under his direction I climbed 
to the trap-door once more, taking in my 
hand one end of the cord. This I threaded 
through ftie iron ring upon the under side of 
the lid, passing it down until a double rope 
had been formed. Clinging to this with legs 
and one hand, I tore the ladder ends from 
the rusted sockets attached to the timbers 
of the trap-door, into which they were 
thrust, and, with a warning shout to the 
monk to stand clear, pushed the whole thing 
over. Its long length jammed at one or two 
points in the cleft, but a few vigorous kicks 
as I slid down the rope freed it, and it fell 
with a crash into the valley. Arrived at the 
bottom of the cleft, it was only 
withdraw the rope from the ring and the 
pinnacle of rock was a prison. 

Fortunately there was no moon that night, 
and under cover of darkness we at length 

stole away, clambering as best we could over 
the scattered boulders and through the dense 
undergrowth. The noise we made did not 
pass unchallenged ; but though bullets fell 
around us, occasionally too close for comfort, 
they were fired at random, and we escaped 
unhurt. Once on the path our way was easy. 
An hour's trudge brought us to the nearest 
village, where my companion, rousing- a 
friendly peasant, procured a couple of mules. 
Riding through the night, by early morning 
we were in Trikkala. 

There is little more to add. At Trikkala 
information was at once laid with the authori- 
ties, and a troop of infantry was dispatched 
forthwith to effect the capture of the notorious 
"Three Fingers." As to the latter, from 
accounts which I received later, it seems that 
he met his end becomingly. Refusing to 
surrender, he held his pinnacle prison against 
the soldiery, and efforts to dislodge him were 
unavailing. Eventually he was killed, while 
rashly exposing himself, by the bullet of a 
sharpshooter ; but not before he had, on his 
side, accounted for some half-dozen of his 

After some delay I succeeded in obtaining 
payment of the reward which had been 
offered for the bandit's capture. My share I 
made over to the monk, to whose courage, 
nerve, and ingenuity was due not only my 
own escape, but the turning of the tables 
upon my pursuers. Somewhere in southern 
Greece, in a spot far removed from possible 
vengeance, he still enjoys, I believe, a life of 
quiet ease and pious devotion. 

Never since have I been to Thessaly. But 
lately I made by chance the acquaintance of 
a traveller fresh from those parts, and ques- 
tioned him about the scene of the incidents 
I have here related. From him I learned 
that the monastery on the rock no longer has 
an occupant, and is fast crumbling to decay. 
The peasants, he said, shun the place, and 
are unwilling to approach it too closely, even 
during the day. "They declare that it is 
haunted," said my informant, with a laugh. 

I do not wonder. There are waking 
moments of the night when the echo of a 
death-scream rings hideously in my ears. 

by Google 

Original from 

The figures, reading fmm kft to ri^hl, are : Vice. AiJ nil. Sir D:i> H. Hosanuuet, Ad ml. Sir I. 0. Hopkins. Adml. Sir W. M. Dowell, 
Vice-AdmL the Hon. Sir A. Curzon-Howe, Ad ml. A. H. .\farkham, AclmJ, ihc Hon. E. R. Frenmntk, Adml Sir C. Bridge, 
Capt. W. & Goodenough, Adml. Pelham Aid Huh, Adml ibv Right Hon. Sir ). C. Dalrymple Hay, Adml. Sir J. Engine, 

Adml. Sir Nowell Salmon. 

Could Nelson Enter the Navy To-Day? 


It is not too much to say, therefore, that 
this most interesting discussion raises a 
question of national importance. 

jAST an eye upon the group 
of famous Admirals above, 
clustered about the figure of 
their exemplar, Horatio Lord 
Nelson. A most interesting 
discussion is afoot amongst 
them. The question is briefly this : Would 
the hoy Horatio Nelson, if he lived in these 
times, be accepted or rejected for entry into 
His Majesty's Navy? 

The picture, of course, is imaginary, hut 
the question and the discussion are things 
of fact The question was first raised hy a 
well-known American writer on naval affairs 
— a question much more far reaching than 
may appear at first sight, since the fact, if fact it 
be, that the regulations of our present system 
would shut out from the Service the greatest 
naval genius who has ever adorned it, proves 
that the system has at least one most grave 
defect Would Nelson have been rejected ? 
We have put the question to our most eminent 
naval experts, and their replies are here sub- 
joined. It will be seen that, while opinions 
are divided, many of them consider that the 
delect su^ested is a very real one. 




Here are the views of Sir James Erskine^ 
Admiral of the Fleet, who has, during his 
fifty- five years of service, occupied many 
important positions, including that of Com- 
mander-in-Chief of the North American and 
West Indian station. 

Admiral Erskine expresses the opinion 
that the boy Horatio Nelson would in all 
probability, owing to his physique and 
apj^arance, be rejected for entry into the 
British Navy under present-day conditions. 

" Moreover," he continues, " I believe 
that many men of great loftiness of character 
and capacity must inevitably be lost to the 
naval service owing to the exacting demands 
of present-day conditions, which require the 
strongest development of physique and 
nerve, without which no naval officer, in 
my opinion, would be able to stand the 
strain to which he must he exposed in 
carrying out the duties which he may be 
called upon to perform at the present day," 

Original from 




Another point of view is propounded by 
Admiral the Hon. Sir E. R. Fremantle, 
whose brilliant exploits during the Ashanti 
War of 1873, where he was senior naval 
office^ won him the thanks of both Houses 
of Parliament 

"It must be borne in mind," he, says, 
"that Nelson had good professional interest, 
his uncle being a post -captain with good 
appointments, and I have observed that the 
Selection Committee seldom reject any boys 
who are the sons or nephews of naval officers. 
He might, of -course, be rejected medically; 
but I am not aware that he had any congenital 
disease, and I do not think that b<jys are 
usually rejected for mere delicacy of appear- 
ance. This, however, is a medical question. 

heroic determination which can scarcely be 
necessary to the same degree in their 

" I^t us hope," the gallant Admiral con- 
cludes, " that a present-day Nelson would 
not be rejected ; and I could point to one or 
two naval officers of high rank in the Service 
who are certainly delicate, hut whose quali- 
ties of head and heart enable them to hold 
their own with their physically more fortunate 

The Right Hon. Lord John Hay, who 
entered the Navy over sixty- seven years ago, 
served with distinction in the China War 
before he was fifteen, and eventually became 
Commander-in-Chief at Devonport with the 

Although of frail physique^ NcEmjm was a. boy of courage and intrepidity, as the incident depicted abovp by the 

artist *.hows. During a northern cruise he cnircxintcrvd a Polar l»ar at close quarter*, who, aMonished at the bold 

front assumed by the young middy, beat a hasty retreat. 

fVom nit iM Print. 

"Sir James Erskine seems to hold, that 
the conditions of service in the present day 
are more exacting than they were formerly. 
This can scarcely be maintained, though they 
are different in character* 

" On the one hand, modern science has 
made warfare more continuous, and there are 
no slack times as in Nelson's day, when, 
owing to weather conditions, there was no 
apprehension for a possibility of hostile 

**On the other hand, the comforts are far 
greater, the * lee shore ' has lost its terrors, 
and the officers of ' those storm tossed ships * 
which kept the sea, blockading for years with- 
out going into port, living on salt junk and 
ship's provisions not of the best quality, 
required the digestion of an ostrich, and an 

ed by Google 

rank of Admiral of the Fleet, concurs with 
these remarks* He believes that there has 
been no time during the last or present 
century when a boy like Nelson could not 
have got into the Navy ; and certainly at the 
present time he would have an even better 

In a brief letter Admiral Sir W, M. Dowell, 
who entered the Navy in the same year as 
Lord John Hay, served with him in the 
China War and before Sebastopol, and suc- 
ceeded him as Commander-in-Chief at Devon- 
port in 1888, expresses his entire agreement 
with Sir James Krskine. In his opinion the 
boy would probably he rejected. 

" In m Y o rari^"#flbM mM sir Cyprian 



Bridge, a former Director of Naval Intelli- 
gence and ex-Commander-in-Chief of the 
China station, "the conclusion that had 
present-day rules been in force in his day 
Nelson would not have been admitted into 
the British Navy is quite correct. 

tf I believe that the doctors, under the 
rules mentioned, would have rejected a boy 
of his seemingly delicate physique. I am 
quite certain he would have been rejected by 
examiners in the scholastic ordeal to which 
boys desiring to 

become midship- i — — — ■ — ~ — r ~ — *~ 

men are now * 


" The school- 
masters and ex- 
amination fad- 
dists have done 
at least one 
thing : they have 
rendered it quite 
impossible for a 
hoy such as 
Nelson to enter 
the Navy," 

While Sir John 
Ommanney Hop- 
kins, the distin- 
guished Admiral 
and a former 
Controller of the 
Navy, who a few 
years hack relin- 
quished the com- 
mand of the 
Fleet, has no 
hesitation in con- 
curring with the 
views expressed 
by Sir James 
Erskine, it is 
argued by 
Admiral the 
Right Hon. Sir 

Charles Dairy m pie Hay, Privy Councillor, 
and author of many works on naval subjects, 
that the conditions required for admission to 
our Royal Navy have recently undergone 
considerable alterations. He believes that 
the boy Horatio Nelson would have im- 
pressed his examiners, when they interviewed 
him, favourably, for he was plucky and intel- 
ligent, but whether his physique would have 
satisfied the medical examiners was uncertain. 
Before the recent change in the method of 
selection was adopted, he agrees that Horatio 

Digitized by Google 



n eqi 

hrium In this danRenous position shows them to have been naiiira My Athletic, 

without any bug or difficult course of ^'gymnastics and calisthenics such 

as prevails to-day in the Navy. 

from an (Ad Print. 

Nelson might not have passed. Under the 
present system he thinks he would have 
passed into the Navy. 

" I can only say," remarks Admiral Sir 
Nowell Salmon, V.C, who served in the 
Baltic during the Russian War and in Peel's 
Brigade during the Indian Mutiny, and who 
commanded the Fleet at the Jubilee Review 
of 1897, "that it is quite possible that a boy 
like Horatio Nelson might be rejected under 

present condi- 

■ tions, and that 

great loftiness of 
character and 
capacity could 
hardly be looked 
for at so early an 

" Personally I 
should not re- 
commend that 
the conditions 
for entry should 
be lowered, as 
under ordinary 
circumstances a 
sound mind is 
more likely to be 
found in a sound 
body than in a 
feeble one." 

Another view 
of the question 
is taken by Viee- 
Admiral Pelham 
Aid rich, who 
served as First 
Lieutenant in 
both the Chal- 
lenger Deep Sea 
Exploring Ex- 
pedition and the 
Alert Arctic Ex- 
pedition, and was 
a few years ago 
the Admiral Superintendent at Portsmouth 

" It may be/' he says, "that the boy 
Horatio Nelson would not be considered 
physically strong enough to enter the Navy 
to day, but his intelligence and keenness 
would cause regret at the necessity for reject- 
ing him* 

" Everyone must realize that, all other 

things being equal, a strong constitution 

and sound physique are desirable ; and 

although in a few cases, such as that of 

Original from 


pnicn irt Nelson'* day wtsre frequently IL mast -bended " for misonn 
The ease with which they were credited with maintain ins an eqmli 



Nelson, the indomitable spirit may counter- 
balance physical weakness, the latter might 
prove :i real source of danger to the nation 
in the large majority of instances ; while the 
bare chance of a weakly hoy subsequently 
becoming a second Nelson would not be 
sufficiently good ground for admitting hoys 
who are not blessed with sound health 
accompanied with brains. It must not be 
forgotten that, although there has been hut 
one Nelson, there have been other naval 
officers of some distinction who were physi- 
cally strong." 

Captain W. E. Goodenough concurs. " I 

" To answer the question directly — I have 
no doubt that Lord Nelson would satisfy 
the conditions of modern entrance and 

Vice- Admiral Sir Day H. Bosanquet, for 
some years Commander-in-Chief of the West 
Indian station, remarks: — 

u I do not agree that a desirable candidate 
is likely to be rejected by the British Navy 
under present-day conditions, I believe 
entirely the opposite." 

This view was supported by Vice-Admiral 
the Hon. Sir Ass he ton Curzon-Howe, Assist- 

The boy Nelson kntw nothing of any system of severe muscular eserrisit!, such as the above photograph at Osborne shorn. 

If he had, his own system would probably have proved unequal to the strain. 

From a Photo, by W. frrtftorit *fc Cfo. 

think/' remarked the popular chief of that 
veteran training ship, the Britannia , "that 
Lord Nelson, at the age when he would have 
come up for interview under the present 
system of entry, showed just such qualities 
that would have been seized on by the mem- 
bers of the Committee as those likely to make 
a good naval officer. Appearance has nothing 
to do with the case, and due allowance is 
made for small physique. 

"There is nothing to show that Lord 
Nelson had a passion for the sea as a small 
boy. He wished to go to sea more as a duty 
to his parents to clear them of the expense 
of looking after him, and, according to the 
most reliable historian (i.e., Sou they), had 
after his first cruise no 
King ? s Service* 

great liking for the 

d by Google 

ant Director of Naval Intelligence in 1892, 
who remarks : — 

" I am not one of those who consider 
physique (beyond ordinary healthy con- 
ditions) is a necessity for nerve or capacity 
in a naval officer. In these days of steam- 
ships intelligence and endurance are of 
greater value than a very fine appearance 
and strong physique — desirable as these 
undoubtedly are* 

"It is my belief that the medical 
authorities accept any hoy who has no 
physical disabilities or constitutional ail- 
ment, and that the Selection Board, if 
confronted with a small boy full of zest 
and enthusiasm, like Lord Nelson, would 
appreciate and accept him in the present 




" Having had the happiness of supervising 
the entry and early introduction to the Navy 
of some seven to eight hundred cadets, 1 fancy 
these ideas must obtain with the authorities; 
and the pleasure it has been to me to mett 
so many of these boys excellent officers, and 
excelling in health and hard work for their 
profession, confirms me in my belief. 

11 1 can only speak from my own experience, 
when many a small boy, who might have 
been lightly regarded on account of small 
physique, was allowed to join on the very 
plea that he might be a f young Nelson/ 
and whose subsequent career has justified 
the decision." 

Admiral Sir A- H. Markham, who, as 
commander of the Akri in the Arctic Expe- 
dition of 1875, succeeded in planting the 
Union Jack in the highest northern position 
reached up to then, and was for this service 
presented with a gold watch by the Royal 
Geographical Society, observes that he for his 
part is in perfect accord with the opinion 
that, if the present hard and fast regulations 

concerning the entry of naval cadets had 
been in force at the time Nelson entered the 
Navy, it was highly improbable that he 
would have been admitted 

" I do not think/' continues the famous 
Admiral, "that the mere fact of a boy 
nowadays possessing * a passion for the sea * 
would be in any way considered by those 
responsible for the selection of young officers 
for the Navy, I have a letter before me at 
the present moment from a father desirous 
of obtaining a nomination for his son as a 
naval cadet, in which the writer suites thru 
his boy 'has a perfect passion for the sea, is 
in every way cut out for a sailor, and gives 
every promise of becoming a most excellent 
officer/ But unless this lad succeeds in 
passing his medical examination he will 
certainly not be afforded the opportunity of 
achieving distinction in the Navy, in spite of 
possessing the qualifications attributed to him, 
Robust health and a strong physique with 
good nerve are perhaps more essential to the 
naval officer of the present day than they were 
to our officers of one hundred years ago." 

Present-day Middies Of foothall, hockey, tennK and ciicket Midshipman Horatio Nelson was painfully unfamiliar, 
and would perhaps have been regarded unfavourably ns a " mdl " by the pre sent -day authorities, whg regard 

participation in these sports as essential. 
Ftim a PHvU?. hp IK Orcpvrp *F tip. 

by Google 

Original from 


By Basil Marnak. 


I HAT are you standing there 

for, eh, boy? Don't you 

know it's rude to stare ? Get 

to bed, child ! Get to bed ! 

Little boys have no business 

to be awake at this hour." 

Old Jonas Tyndal's voice was harsh, and 

his shaggy, grey brows contracted as he fixed 

his piercing eyes on the small figure leaning 

against the balustrade of the veranda. 

It was a glorious night in February, '94. 
The Southern Cross sprawled glitteringly 
above the velvety line of the horizon. Away 
in the distance the moonlight glinted on the 
sluggish, grey water of Three Tree Creek, 
making of it a silver ghostly thread. To 
the south the Gippsland Hills rose in purple 
billows to the sky. But in front and all 
around mile after mile of open clearing swept 
mistily in undulating reaches, broken here 
and there by gleaming patches of gum trees 
stretching gaunt arms and feathery, whisper- 
ing leaves to the stars. A night, indeed, 
such as can only be found in Australia, 
mystic in the spell of brooding, breathless 
silence 1 

Jonas Tyndal, millionaire stock-owner, with 
his granddaughter, Kate, were sitting on Jack 
Lester's veranda, having ridden over from 
their station, some twelve miles distant, that 
same afternoon. 

For some minutes the boy who had called 
forth the old man's testy remark had been 
standing gazing into Jonas's hard, seamed 
face. In his wide blue eyes — eyes of the 
same luminous blue as the old man's — was 
a strangely searching look, a look laden 
with that haunting sense of fugitive reminis- 
cence one sometimes surprises in the eyes 
of children. 

He had a beautiful face, this boy — oval, 
delicately moulded, with bright, clear com- 
plexion, large, solemn, questioning blue eyes, 
a mouth wistful, sensitive, and, for all its 
red curve, over-patient for a child. His 
hair gleamed golden in the moonlight, the 
close-cropped curls nestling above a high 
brow, and a head sheering massively up- 
w ards and outwards from the small, well- 
formed ears. 

The eyes, travelling from the bright, in- 
telligent face, met with a shock at the view 

VoLxxxiiL-6. L 

of his body. For from shoulders to hips 
the spine curved outwards, giving him an 
appearance almost grotesque. The malfor- 
mation was intensified by the recurrence of 
nervous twitchings which ever and again 
shook his shoulders. 

Jonas Tyndal had known the boy long, 
and from the first the latter had ever excited 
him to an irrational irritability which, 
strangely enough, was only increased by 
the air of almost wistful yearning with which 
the child ever received him. 

As the boy's eyes fluttered away under the 
old man's fierce gaze, Jack Lester, with a 
kindly gesture, beckoned him over to his 

" Yes. Get to bed, little man," he said. 
" Remember, I shall want your help in the 
wool-shed in the morning." 

He held him for a moment in a tight hug 
and watched him, a strange glow in his eyes, 
as he kissed Kate Tyndal and stretched a 
timid hand to the old man, ere hobbling off 

For some time the three on the veranda 
sat in silence. Up above the child, divesting 
himself of his garments, got into his night- 
gown. For some minutes he knelt by his 
bedside. Somehow his prayers that night 
seemed to trouble him, and having got past 
" God bless dear Jack and Kate," he faltered 
a little before adding, " and the old man, and 
make him more like father still when he looks 
at me." 

The little room under the roof was hot, 
and the child, filled with an unusual rest- 
lessness, crept out on to the veranda 
through his window, and sat there hunched 
up, his bare toes shining like coral in the 
pale light. 

The voices of the three beneath him came 
softly to his ears. .He listened to them 
dreamily, conscious of no sense of eaves- 
dropping, simply because he was innocent of 
any desire to listen. His attention was 
immediately arrested by the voice of Jonas 

" I can't make out, Lester," he was saying, 
" why you keep that crippled good-for- 

"Oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed Kate, in 
quick protest, "How can you say that? 
He is a darling lfttle chap/' 




" A little coward I " sneered Jonas, acidly, 
" If his back had been straight I could have 
laid my whip over him for the way he funked 
crossing that puny creek the other day." 

" You do him wrong, sir," said Jack Lester, 
slowly, " He is a good boy and a brave, 
except when he has to face water. And that 
is not to be wondered at ! " 

"Why not to be wondered at?" exclaimed 

ten minutes of my arrival her two ends had 
been battered off the ledge into deep water, 

" I called up the herds and we stood by till 
morning. A lot of wreckage came up, and 
by dawn the shore was littered with bodies. 
mostly battered beyond recognition* I was 
just about to clear, when my artention was 
attracted by a wail at my feet. I stooped 
down, and there, lashed to a bit of wreckage, 

=r^ks, jf-- - 


Jonas, testily, " It isn't a natural thing for a 
boy to funk water. What d'ye mean ?" 

i4 You were away at Melbourne when I 
brought him here," said Jack Lester; "and, 
somehow, I've never told you his story. If 
you like, I'll tell it you now/' 

11 Go on ! " answered Jonas, shortly. 

" Four years ago," began Jack, " I found 
myself down on the coast I had made a 
purchase of some excellent rams, and wanted 
to .see them up myself. So I brought them 
out from Geelong and took the coast route 
before trekking inland. On the night of 
February 14th — I remember the date, as the 
circumstances brought it vividly to my 
memory that it was Valentine's Day — I 
left the camp and wandered down to the 
beach. It was a beastly night, thick with 
flying cloud, sand, and drifting rain. You may 
imagine my feelings when I saw, about half 
a mile out, a steamer lying with broken back 
on a jagged spur of rocks, the waves breaking 
in mountains across her. As far as I could 
see her decks were swept clear, and within 

Digitized by G* 

T saw a dead woman and a child* The child 
was alive, I cut it loose, and it clung to me, 
wailing, 6 Fardie ! I want my fardie ! ? 

il ' Poor little waif,' I said ; ( fardie's goni- 
al ome, I fearJ 

" ( Oo'll take me home to fardie ? 3 the 
little one replied, smiling at me suddenly. 

u I felt a bit choked, as you may imagine- 
My fellows buried the body of the mother, 
after having failed to find any marks of 
identification. I brought the boy along with 
me, and from that day he has stayed with 
me. For a long time he was ever asking 
when I would take him to his 'farder/bur 
lately he seems to understand and asks no 
more. I called him * Waif/ He has ever 
been a good boy and, as I said, a brave. 
But now, perhaps, you will understand how 
it is he fears water. 

11 His spine JT — -Jack went on, after a pause* 
during which Kate furtively wiped her eyes — 
" his spine was injured somehow, and the 
doctors mostly think it incurable, though 
Gordon, of Collins Street, says that it is a 
Original from 





nervous affection, and may yet be outgrown 
or cured. There is one curious thing about 
him that has interested Gordon immensely. 
On his breast is a mark. It is an exact 
picture of a wave in the act of breaking. 
Gordon calls it nervous photography/' 

li How very curious ! " broke in Kate 
Tyndal, excitedly. " Why, I— — " then sud- 
denly she stopped, blushing furiously. 

Jack looked at her expectantly. Jonas 
with a sudden exclamation sprang to his feet. 

"Let us get home ! " he said, harshly. 
*'It is late, and listening to this twaddle 
makes us dream.*' 

The boy above, with tense, eager face, 
watched them leave the veranda and seek 
their horses. He followed them with his eyes 
till they were lost in the misty, undulating 
billows, then sank back shivering. It was the 
first time he had heard his history, and it 
awoke in him a phantom host of shadow 
memories, in whose fugitive allurement he 
began to doze. 

Suddenly he sat erect, wide awake, roused 
to eager life by the sound of stealthy whispers 

"There ain't no fear, curse im, 
was saying, " 'E's gorn off with 
'E's layin' up to t'old man's 
pile through 'is darter. We'll 
7 ave 'eaps o 7 time to get in 
and spile his guns," 

"It's a mug's game, Bob," 
replied another voice. M 'E'H 
see 'is guns spiled and smell 
a rat. Leave *em alone and 
stick to the plan, Jim's 
gang is all ready for to- 
morrow, ain't it ? The firell 
be in afore the sun rises. 
All we've got to do is to 
empty this pot of petroleum 
round his ? ouse and sheds, 
Gosh! He'll know better 
after than try to knock down 
honest labour by his demed 

cs Right you are, mate," 
replied the other. "You 
alius was a knowin' coon. 
Aye ! Jim's all 'andy ! J E11 
lie low near Tyndal's, The 
old man and all Is lot are 
safe to scuttle over to help 
fight the fire f and then Jim'll 
njsh in, scoop up the gold 
,he r s stored, carry off the girl ? 
and rush 'em to Three Tree 
Gully. They'll take a lot 

Digitized by G< 

of findin' thar ! I reckon the gtrl'll be 
worth 'er weight in gold. ?H 

Waif, with his eyes wide open, his heart in 
his mouth, listened tremblingly. He could 
not quite catch the full significance of the 
plot. But he realized that it meant burning 
his patron's sheds and carrying off dear Kate, 
who was to be his wife. He crept to the 
edge of the veranda and, hunched up, his 
head between his knees, peered over, trying 
to discover the faces beneath. In his eager- 
ness he hardly noticed how near he was to the 
edge, and before he knew where he was he 
had toppled over, somersaulted, and lit on 
the soft flower-beds beneath, at the feet of 
the two men. 

For a moment he lay half stunned, to find 
himself called to consciousness by the fierce 
grasp of one of the ruffians and the flash of a 
keen knife, 

" Kill the brat ! " said the man with the 



Original from 



" Fool ! " cried the other, swinging Waif 
out of the way of the descending blade. 
" Do you want to raise the country before we 
have the oof? Gag 'im and chuck 'im over 
the saddle and bring 'im along. 'E won't 
tell no tales in the gully, and I guess they'll 
be thinkin' more of the fire than of rousing 
'im in the mornin'." 

Two minutes later Waif, slung face down- 
wards across a saddle-bow, was being carried 
rapidly off into the darkness. For twenty 
minutes the horses galloped on ; then the 
sound of water came to the ears of the 
terrified child, there was a splash, and 
suddenly a welling and swirling of cold 
waters about his heels and ears, and Waif 
lost consciousness. 

The sheep stations of Jack Lester and 
Jonas Tyndal lay respectively at about six 
miles' distance from the Three Tree Creek, 
and joined boundaries. 

Jack Lester was a man after Jonas's 
heart. Beginning with but little, he had, 
by sheer pluck and push, become at the 
age of thirty-four the possessor of some 
three hundred thousand acres of excellent 
pasturage. A Colonial born and bred, he 
came of a good English stock. He was 
of medium height, lithe and lean of limb, 
with a square head, close - cropped black 
hair, a clean-cut, hard face, redeemed from 
harshness by brown, tender eyes, and a 
mouth swiftly mobile to express either 
sympathy or dislike. For some years now 
he had been engaged in an annual strife 
with his shearers, who resented the intro- 
duction of clipping machines, which elimi- 
nated by half the usual manual labour. 
In his war he had been steadily backed 
by Tyndal, who admired his just stubborn- 
ness. The present season the disaffection 
among the shearers had reached a head. 
Many men who had come up on the 
chance of employment had found them- 
selves not wanted, and threats of firing the 
wool-sheds had been freely used. 

The prolonged drought of some seventeen 
months rendered these threats the more 
alarming, for if the grass was once fired it 
might mean wholesale destruction of flocks 
and sheds and all. But Lester's staff had 
worked night and day burning off, here and 
there, long strips of grass as precautionary 
boundaries against chance fires, and in spite 
of threats Jack Lester stood stubbornly to his 
rights to engage or not engage whom he 

Tyndal looked on him with favour, and 


made no objection to his suit for his grand- 
daughter's hand, and at the time our story 
opens Kate and Jack had been formaUy 
betrothed some three months. 

The girl, as the sole heiress of her grand- 
father, was undoubtedly a splendid match for 
the young squatter. But it was not that that 
had attracted him. In fact, he made no 
secret of it to the girl that his love for Waif 
had gradually drawn him into love for her, 
for between these two, so far apart in fortune 
and heritage, lay a strange, subtle likeness, 
both in face and voice. Like Waif, Kate 
had the deep blue eyes of her grandfather, 
locks as golden as the boy's, cheeks as 
delicately transparent, and the same gentle 
oval contour of jaw and chin. Old Tyndal 
had had two sons, but the elder, and his 
best loved, had quarrelled with him ten years 
ago, had left his home, and never since been 
heard of. Nor did the old man ever permit 
his name to be mentioned. Kate's father 
and mother having both died shortly after 
her birth, she had spent all her life under 
Jonas's roof, and was the sole thing on earth 
he seeaned to take a heartfelt interest in. 

As the three approached TyndaFs home 
towards eleven o'clock Jonas turned to 

" You'd better stay here to-night lad," he 
said. "There are a lot of ugly rumours 
about. I have requisitioned ten troopers up 
for to-morrow/ 

" No, thanks ! "" replied Jack. " I'm not 
afraid, and I'd sooner be around in case of 
accidents. Besides, there's Waif, Good- 

He had turned his horse's head and was 
about to ride off when the old man stopped 

" By the way," he said, and his voice was 
curiously hesitating, " what was the date you 
said you picked up that child ? " 

" Waif, you mean ? " answered Jack, sur- 
prised. "It was the 14th February, 1890. 
He was then about three, I should think. 
But why do you ask ? " 

" Curiosity, sir — curiosity," retorted the 
old man, tartly, and without another word 
rode sharply after his granddaughter. 

On reaching home Jonas Tyndal bade 
Kate a curt good-night and, going to his own 
private sanctum, locked the door and seated 
himself before a great escritoire. 

Opening a hidden drawer, he drew out a 
packet of letters, two photographs, and a 
newspaper cutting. 

Very slowly he read through the letters, 
one by one, then put them back. His old 
Original from 



eyes had a curious wet gleam in them as he 
peered at the newspaper cutting. It was very 
short, being headed, " Wreck of ss. Benuuk" 
and contained a list of lives lost, among 
which were the names ** Horace Watson, wife, 
and child," 

Under these names a blue pencil mark had 
been made, and on the margin of the paper 
was written in the same blue, " 14th Feb., "90," 
With the same slow, studied movement 
the old man folded the cutting and placed it 
among the letters. But had anyone been 
able to see him they might have noted that 
his lean, brown, and sinewy hand, as it took 
up the photographs, trembled and shook like 
a dried leaf in the wind. 

The photographs were of a man and a 
woman — the man strangely like himself, with 
a look hard and defiant as his own ; the 
woman a frail, delicate, pretty face, with 
golden flufiy hair, and eyes wide, wistful, and 
yearning as Waifs. 

Hour after hour through the long night 
the old man sat gazing at them, seeing them 
through a red mist in which he spelt out 
again the tale of childhood, of great hopes, 
of pride's deadly thwarting. 

As the grey dawn stole in at the window 
he shuffled stiffly to his feet, and unaffectedly 
wiped the heavy, unshed tears from his eyes. 
" Impossible I Impossible 1 " he muttered, 
hoarsely. (l An old fools dream 1 They 
were all drowned. My boy ! My hoy I 
Why did I not listen to you ? " 
And with slow, faltering footsteps he 

sought his room. 


When Waif awoke to consciousness it 

was to find himself being lifted 

off the horse. In front of 

him one of his captors 

engaged in pulling asid 

heap of brushwood 

that concealed the 

entrance to a 

Waif took a hasty 

Rlance round. Be- 
hind them lay the 

creek, with its stream 

dwindled to a slug- 
gish rivulet, at most 

some three or four 

feet deep in centre. 

In front, stretching 

around, rose a wall of 

wooded cliff, some 

too or three hundred 

feet in height. 

The child had time to notice no more 
before his captor, with rough hand ? pushed 
him into the cave. He could hear the sound 
of the horses being led inside, of the rustling 
of branches as the entrance was again 
covered. Then for some ten minutes he was 
led along a rough, straight passage, till 
suddenly he stood once more beneath the 

He noticed that he was on a broad ledge, 
hanging about a hundred feet above a deep, 
silent gully. Opposite the hills rose again, 
their tops bending over till they formed 
almost an arch above his head. 

"Truss the lad up," said one of the men. 
"No use wasting precious life, and maybe 
Lester* 1 1 pay summut for him." 

Next moment Waifs hands and feet were 
securely bound with a piece of rope, and he 
was half led, half thrown into a dry cave that 
opened off the ledge- He heard the men 
depart, caught again the distant rustle of 
branches, then all was still 

Presently his attention was aroused by a 
sound as of cattle moving about He had 
felt all along too stunned and startled to be 
really afraid, aaid now he sat up peering 
through the blackness. His eyes, growing 
accustomed to the dark, made out a low 
archway on his right through which he could 
see a great herd of cattle and sheep jostling 
one against the other. The sight somehow 
gave him comfort, robbing the situation of 
its terrible loneliness. 







Instinctively his mind turned to escape. 
He tugged at his wrists till the skin was 
broken and bleeding. Then, exhausted and 
tearful, he fell off into a sleep. 

When he awoke the light was shining full 
on his face, and the noise of men laughing 
smote on his ears. Next minute he heard a 
voice call out, " Shove her in with the kid. 
They can't help each other." 

Then to his startled gaze appeared the 
form of Kate Tyndal, her hands and feet 
bound as his own, her face pale and set. 

" Waif ! " she whispered, as she sank on to 
the ground near him, " they have taken you, 
too ? Oh, what has happened ? Jack ! 
Jack ! what have they done to you ? " 

In a few whispered words Waif told the 
sobbing girl how he had been captured. He 
was very fond of Kate, who had ever been 
lovingly tender to the little cripple. In his 
staunch little way he tried to comfort her. 

"Jack will fight them," he said, sturdily, 
" and come to find us. And to-night I will 
escape and lead him here." 

The long hours of the day dragged slowly 
on, bringing no relief to the prisoners. In a 
farther cave the men feasted, drinking and 
singing. From the snatches of conversation 
that floated to them Kate and Waif learnt 
that the raid on Tyndal 's had been perfectly 
successful, the desperadoes having not only 
captured the girl, but the old man's money 
and much cattle. A little comfort, however, 
came to them as they learnt that the fire had 
been an utter failure, thanks to Jack lister's 
precaution and the timely arrival of Jonas 
Tyndal with all his available hands. 

Beyond serving them with their meals the 
bandits took no notice of their prisoners. 
Towards the afternoon Waif, rummaging 
round, found an old iron nail, some six 
inches long, stout and pointed. With this 
he managed by sunset to pick free the 
knots that held his feet, and then, dragging 
himself to Kate, whispered to her to do the 
same office for his hands. 

Now and again one of the band outside 
lounged to the entrance to look in. But 
the prisoners ever lay a little apart, appar- 
ently abandoned to despair. 

When the cave was wrapped in black- 
ness Waif struggled slowly to his feet, his 
hands free at last. With feverish haste he 
untied the bonds that held Kate. " Come ! " 
he whispered. 

" No," replied the girl, under her breath. 
" They would never notice you, dear. You 
are so small. If I attempt it they are sure to 
discover us both. Go alone and bring help. 

by K: 



If they look in and see me here they win 
not think of you. Give me a kiss, dear ; be 
a brave boy. When you come to the water 
shut your eyes and dash right through it 
Good-bye ! " 

The girl caught the frail figure in her arms, 
kissing the pallid, eager face with despairing 
fondness. It seemed to her such a forlorn 
errand for this shivering, wee mite, and yet 
their one hope. 

In the cave beyond them the merriment 
grew fast and furious. Waif, with tremulous 
lips and shaking limbs, crept out on to the 
ledge. It was deserted. Like a shadow he 
glided noiselessly into the tunnel and sped 
rapidly to the mouth. As he reached the 
brushwood and crept through, a voice cried, 
with an oath, " Who goes there ? " 

Waif cowered down against the rock, his 
small body flat on the earth. Next moment 
the brushwood was thrust aside, a man's boot 
grazed his temple, and he was conscious that 
someone stood astride of him gazing out into 
the star-lit night. 

" Some cursed snake, " muttered the voice 
above. The foot was withdrawn, the brush- 
wood re-arranged. Waif, horribly frightened, 
lay motionless, listening to the tramp, tramp, 
of the sentinel. 

Then, bit by bit, his courage came back -to 
him and he wriggled forward with infinite 
care, avoiding each leaf and twig. In five 
minutes he stood clear of the entrance and, 
with one look round, sped across the stony 
earth towards the creek. 

When he reached the banks and faced the 
slow, still, cold-looking water, it seemed to 
him that his heart stopped beating, gripped 
in a frightful cramp. He halted, hesitating. 
His teeth were chattering, his limbs seemed 
to be melting. He felt he could never do it 
Three times he crept to the water's edge, 
three times he shrank back with a moan, as 
# the ripples lapped his bare feet. The wind 
beat chilly through his light nightgown ; the 
moon, climbing up, shone frostily on the 
crawling stream, making it doubly fearsome. j 

Waif, in an anguish of terror, fell on his | 
knees. ; 

" I can't — I can't ! " he moaned. 

Then suddenly came Jack's w r ords on his 
mind, " A good boy and brave." And Kate 
— Jack's Kate ! Had she not kissed him, 
hugged him, telling him to be brave and shut 
his eyes and dash in ? 

He jumped to his feet, a flash of defiant 

resolution shining through his set, frightened 

face. But he would not shut his eyes. He 

clenched his hands and teeth hard and 

Original from 




literally flung himself in the water. For a 
moment, as the ripples washed and clung 
coldly round him, a stifled cry gasped in 
his throat. Then, stepping forward, he was 
borne off his legs. He threw up his hands 
in wild despair. But even as he did so his 
feet felt solid ground again ; he reeled 
blindly, wildly forward and fell on his face, 
safe on the farther bank. 

For a moment he lay, gasping painfully. 
Then with a sob he sprang to his feet and 
fled over the plain* He knew the country 
well as any rabbit Every turn and trail and 
fence was to him as an alphabet, and in an 
hour there rose before him the gleaming iron 
roof of the homestead. 

It was nearly ten o'clock Jack Lester, 
fagged, jaded, desperate, paced the veranda 
to and fro. For twelve hours he and Jonas, 
ten troopers, and some fifty hands had 
scoured the country far and wide for trace 
of Kate Tyndal. When, after stamping out 
the various fires, he and Tyndal had ridden 
to the latter's station, laughing in the glow 
of victory, to find Kate vanished, the house 
sacked, the safe blown open and rifled, their 
consternation may be better imagined 
than described. In the feverish hours 
that had followed he had had 
time to give a thought to Waif. 

Now, suddenly, as he turned in his 
march, there stood Waif before him, 
but Waif transfigured, glorified. 

The child's face was breathless with 
excitement, radiant and aglow with 
the consciousness of success. Yet it 

was not that which struck Jack 

Lester so much. He did not, 

indeed, know what it was, save 

that the boy seemed to have leapt 

suddenly upwards. It was not 

till afterwards he was to realize 

the cause of his surprise. 
He had scarcely recovered from 

the start of finding Waif there in 

from of him, in a drenched, 

muddy nightgown and with feet 

bleeding, when the child, with a 

glad cry, had flung himself into 

his arms. 
M Jackl" he gasped "Dear 

jack ! Be quick ! She's with them 

—in the cave, I escaped and I 

crossed the creek. I did ! I did, 

Jack ! I was horribly afraid ! But I 

peering into the excited, eager child-face. 
Then a lean shadow loomed up at his 
shoulder, and a curt voice said : — 

" Give the youngster breath, old man 
Come here, little \m, and tell me all about it, " 

Next minute Waif found himself sitting on 
the knee of a stalwart trooper, whose grey 
eyes and grizzled moustache somehow gave 
him even more comfort than the sight of his 
revolver and rifle. 

The child, under the trooper's soft handling 
and apparently casual queries, rattled off his 
story in breathless interest and, as he wound 
up, sprang off the trooper's knee and rushed 
at Jack, crying again : — 

" I crossed the creek, dear Jack ! Indeed 
I did! I crossed it ! And you won't think 
me a coward again, even in front of water, 
will you ?" 

Jack's reply was lost in the sound of the 
lieutenant's voice as he thundered out, " Boot 
and saddle, boys, and ten volunteers." 

Then, as the troopers formed up and the 
volunteers sprang forward, Jack, engaged in 
hastily thrusting WaiTs limbs into dry clothes, 
stopped and looked at him, 

it. Quick ! Get men and come and rescue 

For a moment Jack Lester thought the 
W was delirious. He hueged him to him, ■< 




4 8 


"My God!" he gasped; "the boy is 
straight ! " 

" Hurry up, there ! " called out the lieu- 
tenant, sharply. 

Jack had no time for further remark. He 
swung Waif, half dressed, in front of his 
saddle, and the little troop went thundering 
across the plain towards the creek. 


"This is a 'dead bird/" chuckled Lieu- 
tenant Dawson, half an hour later, as the 
cavalcade drew rein on the other side of the 
creek and Waif pointed out the concealing 
brushwood. " IVe always suspected an open- 
ing hereabouts, and there's a path I know 
leads to the ledge beyond. You, Jackson, 
take six men and top the ridge. That will 
head off retreat. Til wait till you get over 
the boulders and then go in. See that none 

In another ten minutes Dawson, followed 
by Jack Lester with Waif, and twenty men 
proceeded quietly to dismantle the brush- 
wood. They had scarcely finished when a 
challenge from within warned them the 
sentinel was awake. At a sign from Dawson 
his men flattened themselves against the 
rock. The silence was breathless. Next 
moment the face of a man peered through 
the brushwood — right into the barrel of 
Dawson's revolver. 

"One word," whispered Dawson, gently, 
"and you jump." 

The man moved never a muscle, save to 
stretch out his hands, dropping, as he did so, 
his rifle. 

When his hands were bound he growled : — 

" Queen's evidence, mates ! Bear me 
witness I gave no trouble. You'll find the 
rest inside. They'll be mostly drunk asleep 
now, I reckon." 

Silently the little band passed in and 
reached the ledge. 

Waif, with a tug, drew Jack aside. 

" She's in there," he whispered. 

Then, as Dawson with his men crept on 
the sleeping gang, Jack with Waif stole into 
the cavern where Kate, tired out, lay asleep. 

As they reached her side a couple of shots 
rang out, and Dawson's voice, dry and cold, 
"It's no use, boys! Game's up. I've got you 
both ends. Hands up, all of you, or there'll 
be a funeral." 

Kate, with a terrified cry, sprang to her 
feet, looking wildly around, crying, "Jack! 
Jack! Help!" — only next moment to feel 
herself encircled by two loving arms and to 
hear in a well-known voice : — 

Digitized by LiOOgle 

" It's all right, darling. Waif reached us, 
and we've collared the whole gang." 

Somehow Jack did not feel jealous when 
the girl, suddenly loosening one arm from 
him, enfolded Waif in her comprehensive 

" You dear ! " she cried. " You darling, 
brave little chap. I knew you would do it ! " 

"If you've done inside there I'm for 
moving," came in dry accents from without. 

Kate, with a blush, started back, and in a 
few minutes the party emerged on to the 

" I'll leave you five of my fellows," said 
Dawson, " to see you through to Tyndal's. 
Guess that's your direction. I'll take this 
lot right along," nodding to the seven or 
eight men who, lashed back to back, stood 
encircled by their captors. 

A cordial " good night," and next minute 
Jack, with Waif still in front and Kate riding 
neck and neck, raced through the creek, 
the troopers splashing along after them. 

It was a breathless party that swept up the 
broad avenue leading to Jonas Tyndals 
roomy bungalow. The old man, disturbed 
by the clatter, came running out Kate 
fairly flung herself out of the saddle into his 
aims. Something in the aged look on his 
haggard, startled face touched her infinitely. 

" Dear grandad ! " she half sobbed. " I'm 
safe after all. And it was thanks to little 

The old man hardly seemed to heed her. 
His eyes looked past her, fixed in wonder on 
the fair, flushed face, on the erect figure of 
the boy. He broke loose from Kate's clasp 
and grasped Waif by the shoulder. 

" What does it mean ? " he asked, hoarsely, 
looking from him to Jack. 

Jack, astonished at his suppressed excite- 
ment, looked at him amazed. 

" Really, sir," he said, " it's as much a 
mystery to me as it is to you. Waif chucked 
himself into the creek to-night to save Kate, 
and the shock seems to have confirmed 
Gordon's theory and levelled him out." 

" Get away and talk to Kate," snorted the 
old man, irritably; "it's all you're fit for. 
And you, boy " — turning to Waif — " come 
with me." 

Quaking, yet strangely confident, Waif 
followed the shaking form of the old man 
into his own apartment. Once inside, Jonas 
Tyndal took the boy by the arm and led him 
up to the desk, on which still stood the two 
photographs of the night before. 

"Who are they?" he said, gruffly, a harsh, 
tense note of expectation in his voice — his 

hi i '.' i ii 




eyes, piercing, hot, commanding, 
the child's face. 

Waif, following the direction of the 
ing, outstretched finger, gave a sharp 
sprang forward, then stood stock 
still Jonas Tyndal stood as if 
carved in marble, his eyes never 
moving from the flushing, paling 
face beneath. 

Then the child's shoulders 
suddenly heaved, a sob escaped 
his lips, two large tears gathered 
slowly in his eyes and rolled 
down his cheeks. 
Jonas never moved. 
The child's chest shook. The 
old man , watching him, saw him 
clench his hands, saw his lips 
grow into a thin, grim line 
strangely resembling his own 

" Who are they ? " he said, 
and even to himself his voice 
seemed strangely hoarse and 

" Father and mother" 
The words were but a whisper, 
choked, only half audible. But 
they thrilled Jonas Tyndal as 
he had never before in all his life been 

Before the child knew where he was the 
hands of the old man had fallen on his 
shoulders, and his voice, choking, hoarse, 
broke on the child's sobs, 

M Bare your breast, child ! Let me see if 
you have the birthmark or not." 

His lean, trembling fingers tore aside the 
smock. He lifted the shrinking, terrified 
child to the light and peered at his bare 

There, rippling across the clear skin, was a 
rose-coloured wave, its crest half curved in 

With fingers suddenly grown strangely 
steady the old man put Waif down and, 
drawing him to a chair, held him between his 
knees, gazing with tense scrutiny into the 
child face in front of him. Suddenly some- 
thing in the yearning look of those old, 
wrinkled eyes caused the boy to smile. His 
whole face lit up, all the fear and timidity 
resolving and melting into a frank, half-coy, 
half-defiant grin, 

44 My God ! " gasped Jonas Tyndal " I 
could believe it to be my boy himself." 

It was half an hour later that Jack and 
Kate, seeking their host, found him, Waif 
seated on his knee, hugged to his breast. 

Vest *3?xi1L — 7- 


The child, worn out, was sound asleep, his 
golden curls nestled in the old man's elbow, 
his face, softly flushed, turned upwards to the 
old man's gaze* 

Jonas Tyndal did not so much as move 
as the two came in. Down the old, stern 
cheeks two tears were trickling slowly, 
mingling with the golden curls of the boy, 
and his eyes, strangely softened and wistful, 
wandered backward and forward from the 
sleeping face to the photograph on the table. 

Jack and Kate stopped spellbound at the 

A look from the old man beckoned them in. 

" Hush ! " he said ; " don't wake my bairn. 
Aye, Jack, it's a good deed ye did to find 
him, for it's my own son Horace's boy you 
brought home from the wreck where his 
father and mother went down. He'll be 
Waif no longer now, You must give him 
up. He will cost Kate half her fortune, lad, 
but you've given back an old man his soul. 1 * 

Jack and Kate stole softly out, and Waif, 
moving restlessly, shifted a tremulous hand 
into the old mans collar, and smiled and 
slumbered on. 

His grandfather bent his head. The tears 
rolled silently, freely now, down his cheeks. 
For the first tirneil SfOfflany years Jonas 



Every article in this entirely novel series contains at least one hundred illustrations I 


ON Sunday morning we leave London 
Bridge, to find ourselves in Rotterdam 
next morning. This is an interesting, 
old-fashioned town, containing many quaint 
old gabled houses, and as many canals as 
streets. An hour's railway journey brings us 
to Amsterdam, the Dutch capital. Here the 

chief attraction is 
* the palace, the 
great reception- 
room of which is 
a very marvel of 
architecture. Our 
next stopping-place is 

The routes through Europe, going and returning — 
enlarged in order to allow space for the numbers. 

Utrecht. The famous Maliebaan, with its 
triple avenue of limes, lies to the east of the 
town, while from the summit of the caihe 
dra] tower a magnificent view may be 
obtained embracing all Holland, 

Crossing the frontier we arrive at Antwerp, 
the chief arsenal of 
Belgium, with elaborate 
fortifications. Taking 
train from here we come 
to Bruges, a beautiful 
but rather melancholy old 
town, This is accounted 
for by the fact that half 
its forty - odd thousand 
inhabitants are paupers. 


Perhaps the most interesting feature of Ghent is the Grand 
Beguinage, or nunnery, This, enclosed by moats and walls, is 
quite a little town in itself, and contains seven hundred inhabitants, 
eighteen convents, and a church. Brussels, the capital of Belgium, 
has been described as Paris in miniature. It is certainly one of 
the most beautiful cities in Europe* 

We proceed into Germany, where Cologne h our firsl stopping- 
place. Cologne Cathedral, a magnificent example of Gothic archi- 
tecture, is among the most famous in the 
world, Passing through Coblentz, we come 
to the beautiful old University town of 
Heidelberg. The castle here is considered 
to be the finest ruin in Germany. Berlin 
must next be visited, which city we reach by 
way of Frankfort, one of the most important 
commercial centres in Germany* In external 
appearance Berlin lacks interest. Vienna, 
the beautiful Austrian capital, is now 

visited, and then we 
return to Munich, 
an important city 
on the River Isar 

m ' 

*i I i r 

and a la mo us art 


Leaving Germany 
behind us we embark on a rapid tour 
through Switzerland, Lovely Lucerne, with 
its snow-capped mountains and deep, 
pellucid lake, soon gives way to Berne. A 
brief sojourn in the Swiss capital and we 
are at Interlaken, situated between the lakes 
of Thun and Brienz. Grindelwald, n large 
village of widely scattered houses* is about 
ninety minutes' journey from here and is a 
favourite starting- place for excursions. The 
Engadine consists of a narrow valley, sixty 
miles long, bounded by lofty, snow-covered 
mountains. Washed by the waters of 
Geneva's Hike, which at this point is over 
deep, stands the famous 'Castle of Chilton, 

three hundred feet 
immortalized by Byron's poem. 

But we may not stop long to ruminate over this gloomy and 
historic pile ; Venice* the Queen of the Adriatic, is before us. 
Here is the famous cathedral of St. Marks, decorated with Oriental 
magnificence, which once seen will nev-T !>e or^otten. Milan is 
justly celebrated for its colos^*Jiu^hrtp^p^hipb| i,*ia considered 
by the Milanese to be. the eighth wonder of" the world; ' It is built 


entirely of white 
marble, and is pro- 
bably the most per- 
fectly beautiful build- 
ing in existence. 

We must now leave 
Italy for a while and 
visit the tiny princi- 
pality of Monaco, and 
Monte Carlo with its 
famous casino. We 
break our journey at 
Genoa, the chief com- 
mercial town of Italy. 
Pisa is our next stop- 
ping-place, the most 
notable feature of 
which is undoubtedly 
t he world -famed 
Leaning Tower. 
Florence, the birth- 



place of Dante, 
Galileo, and Machia- 
velli, is the most 
famous art centre in 
the world. 

With a feeling akin 
to awe we approach 
Rome — the Eternal 
City, Here we may 
see the magnificent 
cathedral of St. 
Peter's. Here also is 
the ancient Colos- 
seum, one of the 
most stupendous 
structures the world 
has ever seen, 

" See Naples and 
die ! n was the proud 
boast of the ancient 
N eaj >ol i tans. Th e r i t y 

is, nevertheless, one 
of the dirtiest and 
worst- drained places 
in the world. Fifty 
minutes by rail from 
Naples and we reach 
Pompeii, the wonder- 
ful excavated cily 
Not far from here is 
the Island of Ischia, 
in the Mediterranean, 
one of the lovelies! 
spots imaginable: 
hence, sailing round 
Sicily and touching 
at Messina, Palermo, 
and Malta, we pass 
round the foot of 
Italy to Brindisi. 

Re- embarking, wt 
proceed to Athens, 

the historic capital of 
G reece. Sailing from 
here across the 
/Kgean Sea and 
through th? Sea of 
Marmora we come to 
Constantinople. This 
curious and fascinat- 
ing city is made up 
of three towns and 
stands upon two con- 
tinents. From here 
we cross Asia Minor 
to Damascus, the 
most ancient city in 
the world. Thence 
to the Holy City is 
twelve days 1 journey 
on horseback. On 
the western slope of 
ICjll'-lfii'J Mount of Olives, 



F ~ 




- ** -*m 

ftgsr -jg 

V ~ 




- *1» if i 

h*L - rr 1 


BHBnsnv ^ 

- —j 



near to the brook of Kedron, is 
the r,ankn of Gethsemane. 
Six miles to the southward 
stands Bethlehem, containing 
the world-famed Church of the 
Nativity. Jaffa, the ancient 
Joppa, may be reached from 
Jerusalem m about six hours. 
From here we take ship to Alex- 
andria, one of i he chief points 
of interest in which city is 
Pompey's Pillar. 

Port Said, at the entrance of 
the Suez Canal, is our next stop- 
ping-place* Proceeding down 
the Canal for a space we touch 
at Mamara, and then s return- 
ing by way of Cairo, we visit 
those colossal remnants of anti 
quity, the (ireat Pyramid and 
the Sphinx, Here we may enter 
one of the vast fleet of Nile 
boats, or dahaheeyahs^ and pro- 
ceed down the ancient river to 
Camac, an intensely interest- 
ing district of Upper Egypt, 
Close by is Luxor, a market 
town of some two thousand 


jjAtffiSS* "mh-j 


- * .. -' --J 






- * 



inhabitants, whose chief industry 
is the manufacture of bogus relics. 

Two days' journey from Luxor 
brings us to Assouan, a picturesque 
and typically Egyptian city. The 
First Cataract of the Nile — the 
goal of so many travellers — is 
about six miles above Assouan. 
Here is the Island of Philae, con- 
taining many beautiful ruins and 
relics of ancient Egyptian art. 

Leaving the Nile we may strike 
across country to Aden, where we 
take ship to India. A voyage of 
six days on one of the magnificent 
P. and O, steamers and we land 
at Bombay, the "eye of India," 
and the largest, most populous 
and enterprising city in the Em- 
pire. Passing through Hyderabad, 
the chief city of the largest native 
province in India, we journey 
northwards to Agra, where we 
may see the famous Taj Mahalj 
erected by Shah Jehan over the 
body of his wife in 1648. Delhi, 
the " Rome of Asia," and Luck- 
now, memorable for its heroic 







defence during the Mutiny, are the next cities to be visited ; and 
then directing our steps towards Calcutta, the Metropolis of India, 
we take ship to Rangoon, the picturesque capital of Burma- 
Steaming round the Malay Peninsula we reach Hong-Kong, 
one of the largest seaports in the world. Here we may land 
and explore a portion of the interior, not forgetting to visit the 
Great Wall of China, nearly two thousand miles in length, which 

was constructed about 214 b.c. to check the incursions of 
various predatory tribes, 'The next city on our route is Pekin, 
and then, striking the coast line, we sail for Nagasaki, the principal 
port of Southern Japan. Yokohama, in the Island of Hondo, is 
another important port, and the head-quarters of the Japanese 
curio trade. Here we leave Asia for America, stopping en route at 
r , Sydney, Australia, and.also at Honolulu, 

one of the most 



beautiful of the Pacific Islands, finally arriving at the Island of 
Vancouver. The town of Vancouver dates practically from 1885, 
when it was chosen as *he terminus of the famous Canadian 
Pacific Railway. Journeying southwards we reach San Francisco, 
rising anew from 
its ashes to its 

former glory, which our illustration represents. Passing through 
Salt I,ake City — that "Zion of the letter- Day Saints'' — we 
cross the Continent to St, Louis, and then, after visiting Chicago 
and Washington, we arrive at length at the wonderful Falls of 
Niagara- We now make a brief excursion into Canada, touching at 
Ottawa, Montreal, and Quebec, the Gibraltar 
of America, as it has been well called, and 




then, returning once 

more to Yankee soil, 

we visit Boston, one 

of the oldest and 

most interesting cities 

In the States. 
At New York we 

embark in a vessel 

bound for Havana, 

the beautiful capital 

of Cuba ; then, hug- 
ging the coast of 

South America, we 

drop anchor at Rio 

de Janeiro, the finest 

city in the Southern 

Continent. From 

here to Monte Video 

is but three days' 

journey, while Buenos 
Ayres is reached a 
day later. Hence we 
may ship to Gibmltar, 
calling at Madeira on 
our way. Funchal, its 
chief city, is a beau- 
tifully - situated and 
picturesque town. 

After thoroughly 
exploring the famous Rock we 
may proceed by boat to Malaga, 
a tjuaint old town containing a 
"niijut\ if unbrautiful, cathedral. 
The cathedral at Cordova, how- 
ever, irs a really interesting build- 
ing, being originally a Moorish 
niosque of gorgeous design. Our 
next stopping - place is Seville, 
*here we may see a bull-fight 

in full progress, and 
then, making an ex- 
cursion into Portu- 
gal, we visit Lisbon, 
one of the most beau- 
tifully-situated cities 
in the world. Journey- 
ing northwards we 
reach Toledo, an ex- 
tremely interesting 
old town. Madrid, 
the Spanish capital, 
containing one of the 
finest Royal palaces 
in the world, is about 
two hours' journey 
from here. 

From Barcelona we 
sail to Marseilles, 
the chief seaport of 
Southern France. 
LyonSj the second 
city of France, is the 
next town to be 
visited, and then we 
pass on to Paris, the 
unique, the inimit- 
able* A br i ef s oj o u r n 
in the Gay City and 
we continue our t^els through 
Amiens to Calais, a quaint old sea- 
port with cobbled streets and old- 
fashioned houses, An hour later 
and we are back in Knglaml, after 
basing accomplished a journey 
unbracing all ll\e continents and 
including in our itinerary nearly 
every city of interest or importance 
in the civilized globe. 

Tht great majority of the photograph* in llrs :irticl<? were taken by lh«: well-knowni]fi^m | ^^l^lsr^ ,, |.-|-FrUh & Co., Ltd., 





HE oldest inhabitant of Clay- 
bury sat beneath the sign of 
the Cauliflower and gazed with 
affectionate, but dim, old eyes 
in the direction of the village 

14 No ; Claybury men ain't never been much 
of ones for emigrating." he said, turning to 
the youthful traveller who was resting in the 
shade with a mug of ale and a cigarette* 
"They know they'd 'ave to go a long way 
afore they'd find a place as 'ud come up 
to this/" 

He finished the tablespoon ful of beer in 
his mug and sat for so long with his head 
hark and the inverted vessel on his fart' that 
the traveller, who at first thought it was the 
beginning of a conjuring trick, coloured 
furiously, and asked permission to refill it 

Now and then a Claybury man has gone 
to foreign parts, said the old man, drinking 
from the replenished mug, and placing it 
where the traveller could mark progress with- 
out undue strain ; hut they've, gen'rally 
speaking, come back and wished as they'd 
m never gone. 

Copyright, tgo6, hy W. W. Jjcubs. 

The on'y man as I ever heard of that 
made his fortune by emigrating was Henery 
Walker's great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, 
and he wasn't a Claybury man at all. He made 
his fortune out o r sheep in Australey, and he 
was so rich and well-to-do that he could 
never find time to answer the letters that 
Henery Walker used to send him when he 
was hard up, 

Henery Walker used to hear of 1m through 
a relation of his up in London, and tell us all 
about y im and his money up at this here 
Cauliflower public-house. And he used to 
sit and drink his beer and wonder who would 
'ave the old man's money arter he was dead. 

When the relation in London died Henery 
Walker left off hearing about his uncle, and 
he got so worried over thinking that the old 
man might die and leave his money to 
strangers that he got quite thin. He talked 
of emigrating to Australey f i in self, and then, 
acting on the advice of Bill Chambers — who 
said it was a cheaper thing to do — he wrote 
to his uncle instead, and, arter reminding 3 im 
that 'e wdS n iH n ffld r flft\i living in a strange 
couUH^'ffi^Illf^F^CW'aAWie to Claybury 

in the United Slnlrt of America. 



and make his 'ome with 'is loving grand- 

It was a good letter, because more than 
one gave 'im a hand with it, and there was 
little bits o* Scripture in it to make it more 
solemn-like. It was wrote on pink paper 
with pie-crust edges and put in a green 
envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man 
must 'ave a 'art of stone if that didn't touch it. 

Four months arterwards Henery Walker got 
an answer to 'is letter from 'is great-uncle. It 
was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery 
Walker for all his kindness, 'is uncle said that 
he was getting an old man, and pYaps he 
should come and lay 'is bones in England 
arter all, and if he did 'e should certainly 
come and see his grand-nephew, Henery 

Most of us thought Henery Walker's 
fortune was as good as made, but Bob Pretty, 
a nasty low, poaching chap that has done 
wot he could to give Claybury a bad name, 
turned up his nose at it. 

" I'll believe he's coming 'ome when I see 
him," he ses. " It's my belief he went to 
Australey to get out o' your way, Henery." 

" As it 'appened he went there afore I was 
born," ses Henery Walker, firing up. 

" He knew your father," ses Bob Pretty, 
** and he didn't want to take no risks." 

They 'ad words then, and arter that every 
time Bob Pretty met 'im he asked arter his 
great-uncle's 'ealth, and used to pretend to 
think 'e was living with 'im. 

" You ought to get the old gentleman out 
a bit more, Henery," he would say ; " it can't 
be good for 'im to be shut up in the 'ouse so 
much — especially your 'ouse." 

Henery Walker used to get that riled he 
didn't know wot to do with 'imself, and as 
time went on, and he began to be afraid that 
'is uncle never would come back to England, 
he used to get quite nasty if anybody on'y so 
much as used the word " uncle " in 'is 

It was over six months since he 'ad had 
the letter from 'is uncle, and 'e was up here 
at the Cauliflower with some more of us 
one night, when Dicky Weed, the tailor, 
turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, "Who's 
the old gentleman that's staying with you, 

Bob Pretty puts down 'is beer very careful 
and turns round on 'im. 

" Old gentleman?" he ses, very slow. "Wot 
are you talking about ?" 

" I mean the little old gentleman with 
white whiskers and a squeaky voice," ses 
Dicky Weed. 


by Google 

" You've been dreaming," ses Bob, taking 
up 'is beer ag'in. 

" I see 'im too, Bob," ses Bill Chambers. 

" Ho, you did, did you ? " ses Bob Pretty, 
putting down 'is mug with a bang. " Wot 
d'ye mean by coming spying round my place, 
eh ? Wot d'ye mean by it ? " 

"Spying?" ses Bill Chambers, gaping at 
'im with 'is mouth open ; " I wasn't spying. 
Anyone 'ud think you 'ad done something 
you was ashamed of." 

"You mind your business and I'll mind 
mine," ses Bob, very fierce. 

" I was passing the 'ouse," ses Bill 
Chambers, looking round at us, "and I see 
an old man's face at the bedroom winder, 
and while I was wondering who 'e was a 'and 
come and drawed 'im away. I see 'im as 
plain as ever I see anything in my life, and 
the 'and, too. Big and dirty it was." 

" And he's got a cough," ses Dicky Weed 
— "a churchyard cough — I 'eard it." 

" It ain't much you don't hear, Dicky," 
ses Bob Pretty, turning on 'im ; " the on'y 
thing you never did 'ear, and never will 'ear, 
is any good of yourself." 

He kicked over a chair wot was in 'is way 
and went off in such a temper as we'd never 
seen 'im in afore, and, wot was more sur- 
prising still, but I know it's true, 'cos I drunk 
it up myself, he'd left over arf a pint o' beer 
in 'is mug." 

" He's up to something," ses Sam Jones, 
staring arter him ; " mark my words." 

We couldn't make head nor tail out of it, 
but for some days arterward you'd ha' thought 
that Bob Pretty's 'ouse was a peep-show. 
Everybody stared at the winders as they went 
by, and the children played in front of the 
'ouse and stared in all day long. Then the 
old gentleman was seen one day as bold as 
brass sitting at the winder, and it came to be 
known that it was a pore old tramp Bob 
Pretty 'ad met on the road and given a home 
to, and he didn't like 'is good-'artedness to be 
known for fear he should be made fun of. 

Nobody believed that, o' course, and 
things got more puzzling than ever. Once 
or twice the old gentleman went out for a 
walk, but Bob Pretty or 'is missis was always 
with 'im, and if anybody tried to speak to 
him they always said 'e was deaf and took 
'im off as fast as they could. Then one 
night up at the Cauliflower here Dicky Weed 
came rushing in with a bit o' news that took 
everybody's breath away. 

" I've just come from the post-office," he 
ses, "and there's a letter for Bob Pretty's 
old gentleman ! Wot d'ye think o' that ? " 

a I I I '.' I 1 1 




" If you could tell us wot's inside it you 
might 'ave something to brag about/* ses 
Henery Walker, 

" I don't want to see the inside," ses Dicky 
Weed ; " the name on the outside was enough 
for me. I couldn't hardly believe my own 
eyes, but there it was : ' Mr. Josiah Walker/ 
as plain as the nose on your face." 

O j course, we see it all then, and wondered 
why we hadn't thought of it afore ; and we 
stood quiet listening to the things that 
Henery Walker said about a man that would 
go and steal another man's great-uncle from 
'im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, 
*' Husk ! " and the fourth time he put 
Henery Walker outside and told 1m to stay 
there till he 'ad lost his voice, 

Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, 
and then 'e come back in ag^in to ask for 
advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the 
old gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was pass- 
ing 'isself off as Henery Walker, and the 
disgrace was a' most more than 'e could bear. 
He began to get excited ag T in, and Smith s ad 
just said "Hush /" once more when we 'eard 
somebody whistling outside, and in come 
Bob Pretty, 

He 'ad hardly got 'is face in at the door 
afore Henery Walker started on 'im, and 
Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, 

"'give me bac 

and staring at J im as though he couldn't 
believe his ears. 

" 'Ave you gone mad, Henery ? " he ses, at 

11 Give me back my great-uncle/' ses 
Henery Walker, at the top of 'is voice. 

Bob Pretty shook his T ead at him- "I 
haven't got your great-uncle, Henery," he 
ses, very gentle. M I know the name is the 
same, but wot of it ? There's more than one 
Josiah Walker in the world. This one is no 
relation to you at all ; he's a very respectable 
old gentleman." 

" I'll go and ask J im," ses Henery Walker, 
getting up, "and 111 tell 'im wot sort o' man 
you are* Bob Pretty." 

11 He's gone to bed now, Henery," ses Bob 

" I'll come in the fust thing to-morrow 
morning, then," ses Henery Walker. 

"Not in my 'ouse, Henery/* ses Bob 
Pretty ; " not arter the things you've been 
sayin' about me, I'm a pore man, but IVe 
got my pride. Besides, I tell you he ain't 
your uncle. He's a pore old man Im 
giving a 'ome to, and I won't 'ave T ira 

1<J Ow much does 'e pay you a week, 
Bob?" ses Bill Chambers. 

Bob Pretty pretended not to hear 'im. 

u Where did your 
wife get the money 
to buy that bonnet 
she 'ad on on Sun- 
day?" ses Bill 
Chambers. ** My 
wife ses it's the fust 
new bonnet she has 
3 ad since she was 

£< And where did 
the new winder cur- 
tains come from ? " 
ses Peter Gubbins. 

Bob Pretty drank 
up 'is beer and stood 
looking at them 
very thoughtful ; 
then he opened the 
door and went out 
without saying a 

M He's got your 
great - uncle a pri- 
soner in his 'ouse, 
Henery/' ses Bill 
Chambers ; " it J s 
easy for to see that 

LCK Mr «ftBAT-UHCL«,* SES HiNERY WALKER,* the pOTC old geiltl 




past things* and I 

Pretty don't make 



man is getting 
wonder if Bob 
all 'is money to J im." 

Henery Walker started raving agin, and 
for the next few days he tried his 'ardest to 
gtft a few words with Is great-uncle, but Bob 
Pretty was too much for 'im. Everybody in 
Claybury said wot a shame it was, but it was 
all no good, and Henery Walker used to leave 
is work and stand outside Bob Pretty's for 
hours at a time in the 'opes of getting a word 
with the old man. 

He got 7 is chance at last, in quite a un- 
expected way. We was up "ere at the 
Cauliflower one evening, and, as it 'appened, 
we was talking about Henery Walker's great- 
uncle, when the door opened, and who should 
walk in but the old gentleman 'imself. 
Everybody left off talking and stared at 'im, 
but he walked up 
to the bar and 
ordered a glass o' 
gin and beer as 
comfortable as you 

Bill Chambers 
was the fust to get 
'is presence of mind 
back, and he set off 
arter Henery Walker 
as fast as 'is legs 
could carry T im, and 
inawunnerful short 
time, considering, 
he came back with 
Henery, both of 
'em puffing and 
blowing their 

"There — be — 
is!" ses Bill 
Chambers, pointing 
to the old gentle- 

Henery Walker gave one look, and then T e 
slipped over to the old man and stood 
all of a tremble, smiling at 1m. "Good 
evening/' he ses, 

"Wot?* 1 ses the old gentleman. 

"Good evening!" ses Henery Walker 

n Vm a bit deaf, 3 " ses the old gentleman, 
putting his 'and to his ear, 

"Good evening!" ses Henery W'alker 
agin, shouting. " I'm your grand-nephew, 
Henery Walker ! * 

"Ho, are you?" ses the 
pot at all surprised, " Bob 
tng me all about you. 

" I 'ope you didn't listen to 1m," 
ses Henery W'alker, all of a tremble. 
" Bob- Pretty'd say anything except his 

(t He ses you're arter my money," ses the 
old gentleman, looking at ? im« 

11 He's a liar, then," ses Henery Walker ; 
H he's arter it 'imself And it ain't a respect- 
able place for you to stay at Anybody'll 
tell you wot a rascal Bob Pretty is. Why, 
he's a byword." 

" Everybody is arter my money," ses the 
old gentleman, looking round. 

<; I J ope you'll know me better afore you've 
done with me, uncle," ses Henery Walker, 
taking a seat alongside of 'im, u Will you 
'ave another mug o J beer?" 

"Gin and beer," ses the old gentleman, 
cocking his eye up very fierce at Smith, the 

old gentleman* 
Pretty was tell- 

by Google 


landlord ; " and mind the gin don't get out 
ag'in, same as it did in the last" 

Smith asked J im wot he meant, but 'is 
deafness come on ag'in. Henery Walker 'ad 
an extra dose o* gin put in, and arter he J ad 
tasted it the old gentleman seemed to get 
more amiable -like, and 'im and Henery 
Walker sat by theirselves talking quite 

"Why not come and stay with me?" ses 
Henery Walker, at last, " You can do as 
you please and have the best of everything." 
Original from 




" Bob Pretty ses you're arter my money/' 
ses the old gentleman, shaking his J ead. " I 
couldn't trust you*" 

(( He ses that to put you ag'in me," ses 
Henery Walker, pleading-like. 

" Well, wot do you want me to come and 
lh'e with you for, then ? " ses old Mr, 

"Because you're my great-uncle," ses 
Henery Walker, " and my J ouse is the 
proper place for you. Blood is thicker than 

" And you don't want my money ? " ses the 
old man, looking at 'im very sharp. 

"Certainly not," ses Henery Walker. 

" And 'ow much 'ave I got to pay a 
week?" ses old Mr. Walker. "That's the 
question ?" 

*Pay?" ses Henry Walker, speaking afore 
he 'ad time to think. "Pay? Why, I don't 
want you to pay anything," 

The old gentleman said as 'ow he'd think 
it over, and Henery started to talk to 'mi 
about, his father and an old aunt named 
Maria, but 'e stopped 'im sharp, and said he 
was sick and tired of the whole Walker 
family, and didn't want to 'ear their names 
ag'in as long as he lived Henery Walker 
began to talk about Australey then, and 
asked 'im 'ow many sheep he'd got, and the 
words was 'ardly 
out of is mouth 
afore the old gen- 
tleman stood up 
and said he was 
arter his money 

Henery Walker 
at once gave T im 
some more gin and 
beer, and arter he 
'ad drunk it the 
old gentleman said 
that he'd go and 
live w T Ith 'im for a 
little while to see 
*ow he liked it. 

"But I sha'n't 
pay anything," he 
ses, very sharp ; 
"mind that" 

" I wouldn't take 
it if you offered it 
tome," ses Henery 
Walker. "You'll 
come straight 'omc 
with me to-night, 
won't you ? " 

Afore old Mr. 

Walker could answer the door opened and 
in came Bob Pretty, He gave one look at 
Henery Walker and then he walked straight 
over to the old gentleman and put his 'and 
on his shoulder. 

" I've been looking for you every w here, 
Mr. Walker," he ses. "I couldn't think wot 
had 'appened to you*" 

"You needn't worry yourself, Bob," ses 
Henery Walker ; '* he is coming to live with 
me now," 

" Don't you believe it/' ses Bob Pretty, 
taking hold of old Mr. Walker by the arm : 
4i he ? s my lodger, and he's coming with me." 

He began to lead the old gentleman 
towards the door, but Henery Walker, wot 
was still sitting down, threw 'is arms round 
his legs and held J im tight. Bob Pretty 
pulled one way and Henery Walker pulled 
the other, and both of ? em shouted to each 
other to leave go. The row they made was 
awful, but old Mr. Walker made more noise 
than the two of T em put together* 

" You leave go o' my lodger/' ses Bob 

"You leave go o' my great-uncle — my 
dear great- uncle," ses Henery Walker, as the 
old gentleman called 'im a bad name and 
asked 'im whether he thought he was made 
of iron. 

by Google 

Original from 



I believe they'd ha' been at it till closing- 
time, on'y Smith, the landlord, came running 
in from the back and told them to go out- 
side. He 'ad to shout to make 'imself heard, 
and all four of 'em seemed to be trying which 
could make the most noise. 

" He's my lodger," ses Bob Pretty, " and 
he can't go without giving me proper notice ; 
that's the lor — a week's notice." 

They all shouted ag'in then, and at last 
the old gentleman told Henery Walker to 
give Bob Pretty ten shillings for the week's 
notice and ha' done with 'im. Henery 
Walker 'ad only got four shillings with 'im, 
but 'e borrowed the rest from Smith, and 
arter he 'ad told Bob Pretty wot he thought 
of 'im he took old Mr. Walker by the arm 
and led him 'ome a'most dancing for joy. 

Mrs. Walker was nearly as pleased as wot 
'e was, and the fuss they made of the old 
gentleman was sinful a'most. He 'ad to 
speak about it 'imself at last, and he told 'em 
plain that when 'e wanted arf-a-dozen sore- 
eyed children to be brought down in their 
night-gowns to kiss 'im while he was eating 
sausages, he'd say so. 

Arter that Mrs. Walker was afraid that 'e 
might object when her and her 'usband gave 
up their bedroom to 'im ; but he didn't. He 
took it all as 'is right, and when Henery 
Walker, who was sleeping in the next room 
with three of 'is boys, fell out o' bed for the 
second time, he got up and rapped on the 

Bob Pretty came round the next morning 
with a tin box that belonged to the old man, 
and 'e was so perlite and nice to 'im that 
Henery Walker could see that he 'ad 'opes 
of getting 'im back ag'in. The box was 
carried upstairs and put under old Mr. 
Walker's bed, and 'e was so partikler about 
its being locked, and about nobody being 
about when 'e opened it, that Mrs. Walker 
went arf out of her mind with curiosity. 

" I s'pose you've looked * to see that Bob 
Pretty didn't take anything out of it?" ses 
Henery Walker. 

"He didn't 'ave the chance," ses the old 
gentleman. " It's always kep' locked." 

" It's a box that looks as though it might 
'ave been made in Australey," ses Henery 
Walker, who was longing to talk about them 

" If you say another word about Australey 
to me," ses old Mr. Walker, firing up, " off I 
go. Mind that ! You're arter my money, 
and if you're not careful you sha'n't 'ave a 
farthing of it" 

That was the last time the word 

Digitized by d* 

"Australey" passed Henery Walker's lips, 
and even when 'e saw his great-uncle 
writing letters there he didn't say anything. 
And the old man was so suspicious of Mrs. 
Walker's curiosity that all the letters that was 
wrote to 'im he 'ad sent to Bob Pretty's. He 
used to call there pretty near every morning 
to see whether any 'ad come for 'im. 

In three months Henery Walker 'adn't seen 
the colour of 'is money, and, wot was worse 
still, he took to giving Henery's things away. 
Mrs. Walker 'ad been complaining for some 
time of 'ow bad the hens 'ad been laying, and 
one morning at breakfast-time she told her 
'usband that, besides missing eggs, two of 'er 
best hens 'ad been stolen in the night. 

" They wasn't stolen," ses old Mr. Walker, 
putting down 'is teacup. " I took 'em round 
this morning and give 'em to Bob Pretty." 

"Give 'em to Bob Pretty?" ses Henery 
Walker, arf choking. " Wot for ? " 

" 'Cos he asked me for 'em," ses the old 
gentleman. " Wot are you" looking like that 

Henery couldn't answer 'im, and the old 
gentleman, looking very fierce, got up from 
the table and told Mrs. Walker to give 'im 
his hat. Henery Walker clung to 'im with 
tears in his eyes a'most and begged 'im not 
to go, and arter a lot of talk old Mr. Walker 
said he'd look over it this time, but it mustn't 
occur ag'in. 

Arter that 'e did as 'e liked with Henery 
Walker's things, and Henery dursen't say a 
word to 'im. Bob Pretty used to come up 
and flatter 'im and beg 'im to go back and 
lodge with 'im, and Henery was so afraid 
he'd go that he didn't say a word when old 
Mr. Walker used to give Bob Pretty things 
to make up for 'is disappointment. He 'eard 
on the quiet from Bill Chambers, who said 
that the old man 'ad told it to Bob Pretty as 
a dead secret, that 'e 'ad left 'im all his money, 
and he was ready to put up with anything. 

The old man must ha' been living with 
Henery Walker for over eighteen months 
when one night he passed away in 'is 
sleep. Henery knew that his 'art was 
wrong, because he 'ad just paid Dr. Green 
'is bill for saying that 'e couldn't do any- 
thing for 'im, but it was a surprise to 'im 
all the same. He blew his nose 'ard and 
Mrs. Walker kept rubbing 'er eyes with her 
apron while they talked in whispers and 
wondered 'ow much money they 'ad come 
in for. 

In less than ten minutes the news was all 
over Claybury, and arf the people in the 
place hanging round in front of the 'ouse 




waiting to hear *ow much the Walkers J ad 
come in for. Henery Walker pulled the 
blind on one side for a moment and shook 
his *ead at them to go away* Some of them 
did go back a yard or two, and then they 
stood staring at Bob Pretty, wot come up as 
bold as brass and knocked at the door, 

" Wot's this I J ear ? " he ses, when Henery 
Walker opened it, " You don't mean to tell 
me that the pore old gentleman has really 
gone? I told 'im wot would happen if J e 
came to lodge with you," 

"You be off," ses Henery Walker j "he 
hasn't left you anything/' 

" I know that," ses Bob Pretty, shaking his 
'ead. " You're welcome to it, Henery, if 
there is anything, I never bore any malice 
to you for taking of J im away from us, I 
could see you'd took a fancy to 'im from the 
fust, The way you pretended *e was your 
great-uncle showed me that," 

" Wot are you talking about ? " ses Henery 
Walker. " He was my great- uncle I " 

" Have it your own way, Henery," ses Bob 
Pretty ; M on'y, if you asked me, I should say 
that he was my wife's grandfather," 

u Your wife's grandfather l n ses Henery 

Walker, in a choking voice. 

He stood staring at 'im, stupid-like, for a 
minute or two, but he couldn't get out 
another word. In a flash 'e saw 'ow he T d 
been done, and how Bob Pretty 'ad been 
deceiving J im all along, and the idea that he 
'ad arf ruined himself keeping Mm Pretty's 
grandfather for 'em pretty near sent 'im out 
of his mind. 

" But how is it 'is name was Josiah Walker, 
same as Henery's great-uncle?'* ses Bill 
Chambers, who J ad been crowding round 
with the others. " Tell me that ! " 

"He 'ad a fancy for it," ses Bob Pretty, 
" and being a 'armless amusement we let him 
*ave his own way, I told Henery Walker 
over and over ag'in that it wasn't his uncle, 
but he wouldn't believe me. Ive got 
witnesses to it. Wot did you say, Henery ? " 

Henery Walker drew 'imself up as tall as 
he could and stared at him* Twice he 
opened 'is mouth to speak but couldn't, and 
then he made a odd sort o' choking noise in 
his throat, and slammed the door in Bob 
Pretty's face. 



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(Great Eaglish 

LTHOUGH in the 
galaxy of great British 
painters of the 
eighteenth century 
we find each follow- 
ing his own ideal of female 
beauty, yet they were curiously trammelled 
by those conventions which make Lely J s por- 
traits seem replicas of each other. It cannot 
be denied that they differed profoundly in 
one respect from their predecessors. If you 
will look at the works of the great Con- 
tinental masters in our galleries you will see 
how they avoid intimate portraits of women. 
Their portraits are almost as impersonal as 
the lineaments sculptural by the Greeks. 
Their Madonnas and Venuses are types — 
that is alL We cannot believe that they 
ever had a real existence. When intense 
character and individuality appear upon the 
canvas, it is nearly always the face of a man. 
It would appear as if the Old Masters reserved 
all their penetration and dexterity for the 
portraits of men. They shrank from reveal- 
ing the soul of a pretty ^oman on canvas* 
They loved to paint Woman, but not women. 
Of course, it may be urged that a great 
subject painter never sees a woman, save in 
the abstract. The features of every chance 
model become transfigured and adapted to 
his own ideal. In our own day Leigh ton, 
Bume-Jones, and Rossetti each painted one 
type of woman. But they were not portrait- 
pointers, and the portraits which they at- 
tempted of women were apt to be far more 
influenced by the painter's temperament than 
the portraits of men. 

If we regard Holbein's portraits of the 
British aristocracy three centuries ago we 
shall conclude that there were no beautiful 
women then moving in that class. Holbein 
never drew a beautiful woman — not because 
they did not then exist, but because it was 
impossible for him to paint them. Lely, 
who set the fashion in painting portraits of 
women, relied too much on the conventions 
and on his Royal patron's well-known pre- 
dilections for a certain form of beauty. It 
cannot conscientiously be said that any of 
LeI/s portraits are personal and intimate in 

Digitized by Google 


W©m<£fft D 

the sense that one of Mr. Sar- 
gent's is personal and intimate. 
Then came Hogarth, whose 
own view of life may be said to 
have almost precluded him from 
viewing the more noble and radiant qualities 
of womanhood. Sir Joshua Reynolds seems 
to us the first English painter who really 
sought to give an intimate character to his 
portraits of beautiful women. Hogarth was 
full of character, but the character inherent 
in female beauty baffled him P 

In the middle of the eighteenth century 
the relations between limner and sitter were 
often not such as favoured the utmost 
fidelity in portraiture work as regards the 
figure. The aristocratic patron was haughty, 
brief, and elusive Sittings were few and 
short, and the costume, details, and 
accessories had to be filled up from the 
painter's imagination. The classic poses of 
Sir Joshua Reynolds's high-born ladies could 
never have been sustained for half an hour 
by his sitters. Nor did the prices then paid 
for portraits admit of too much absorption in 
detail The hands were frequently the work 
of inferior artists. The draperies were 
painted in by so-called drapery-painters, 
Romney mentions that these drapery-painters 
were able to make as much as five or six 
hundred pounds a year. To the fashionable 
portrait- painter, therefore, who had to earn a 
decent livelihood, genius was indispensable 
— the genius of seizing instantly upon cha- 
racter and transcribing it in pigments as 
expeditiously as possible. 

In Sir Joshua's indisputable masterpiece 
of female portraiture, the "Nelly O'Brien," 
these conditions were different. It was a 
labour of love, and he must have turned to 
his subject with heartfelt relief from the 
throngs of powdered, overdressed patricians 
whose carriages already blocked the square 
in front of his studio. In this portrait he 
could entirely break away from convention 
as to pose and costume. With Mistress 
O'Brien he could work at his ease. The 
relations between poets and painters and the 
irresponsible comediennes of the town differed 
in Sir Joshua's day from our own. We cannot, 




except by a stretch of the imagination, picture 
Mr. Swinburne strolling down the Strand 
with Miss Flossie Fairweather of the Gaiety 
Theatre any more than we can conjure 
up Mr. Watts or Sir Edward Burne-Jones 
lunching joyously with a principal boy of the 
pantomime. For of such was Mistress Nelly ; 
and yet she and Sir Joshua were on very 
good terms indeed, and she would sit patiently 
and obediently through many more sittings 
than her more aristocratic sisters would 
have found time to bestow upon the clever 
Leicester Square limner. That is the reason 
why the portrait of Nelly O'Brien, now in 
the Wallace Collection, represents Reynolds's 
high-water mark as a painter of women. If 
the picture had been painted in 1780 instead 
of 1 761 we should unhesitatingly say that it 
was suggested by Rubens's portrait of his 
wife, the picture which bears the title of 
"Chapeau de Paille." But Reynolds had not 
then seen this striking portrait of a woman 
by the great Flemish master. When he 
did see it he thought portions of it were 
"shockingly drawn," but it impressed him. 
It is one of the few live female portraits of 
this age — youth in flesh and blood. 

But without attempting to compare these 
two pictures, Reynolds's picture has more 
espiigleric, more intelligence, more intimacy. 

With Mrs. Braddyll's portrait, on the other 
hand, the beholder is held far more aloof. 
Sir Joshua's opinion was that Mrs. Braddyll 
was a beautiful woman, but he treated her as 
he treated a hundred other beautiful women 
who came to have their faces limned at so 
many guineas a head. He put her on canvas 
with dignity and restraint, and with that 
largeness of style which is peculiarly his own, 
but there is none of the sprightliness, of 
the vivacity, that distinguishes the " Nelly 
O'Brien." Mrs. Braddyll was of a heavier 
type, and if she had her spirited moments 
the painter had no time to discover and im- 
mortalize a more felicitous mood. 

The name of George Romney will ever be 
conjoined to that of Amy Lyon, alias Emma 
Hart, Lady Hamilton. The beauty of this 
famous adventuress was not for the brush of 
Romney alone ; but if you will study the 
portraits of Lady Hamilton by other painters 
you will see in those by Romney a quality of 
beauty which they never did and never could 
attain. Lady Hamilton was beautiful in her- 
self, but had Lely painted her, or even 
Hoppner, the world would have lacked that 
fleeting, Ariel-like charm which appears in 
Romney's canvases, seized upon and immor- 
talized because Romney was himself intoxi- 

by LiOOgle 

cated and carried away by the revelation of 
this spirit in his Sitter. 

But whether animated or in repose 
Romney's family portraits always have the 
qualities we have suggested. Nothing could 
be more graceful and easy than the portrait 
of Mrs. Mark Currie. This lady, a banker's 
wife, living in Duke Street, BloomsbuTy, is 
shown seated on a terrace dressed in simple 
white muslin bound by a crimson silk sash ; 
one arm leans on a stone balustrade, her 
hands are shown on her lap. It is difficult 
to say whether it is in the eyes or the mouth 
that the charm of the expression lies, but it 
is there to a degree that you will not find 
in any of the pictures of either Reynolds 
or Gainsborough. It is the same charm 
which pervades the works of Correggio. 
Garrick once said to Reynolds: — 

" Cumberland hates you, Sir Joshua, 
because you do not admire the painter 
whom he considers a modern Correggio." 

" Who is that ? " asked Sir Joshua. 

" Why, his Correggio," answered Garrick, 
" is George Romney." 

Lady Hamilton, it may well be, was never 
really the kind of woman, physically speaking, 
that she appears to us in the various portraits 
by Romney. She may have been, as Rogers 
described- her, large and statuesque — there 
she seems dainty and spirituelle ; she had by 
fits the airs of Ariel, and these the admiring 
painter caught and imprisoned on his canvas 
for all time. 

Many moods had Mistress Emma, and 
Romney caught them all. Sometimes she is 
arch and smiling as in the Bacchante, at 
others she is sweet and demure as in the 
Sempstress, or regal and glowing as in thje 

Of her many anecdotes are related, not 
always, it must be confessed, to her credit 
After several years of profligacy and dissolute 
living in London she married, in 1791, Sir 
William Hamilton, the British Minister at 
Naples. In Italy she soon became a great 
social power, and her marvellous beauty and 
undoubted accomplishments caused artists, 
poets, and musicians to rave about her. 
Moreover, she became the intimate friend 
and confidante of Maria Carolina, Queen of 
Naples and sister of the ill fated Marie 
Antoinette, and, it is said, played no small 
part in the political affairs of the country. 

In 1784 Sir William Hamilton, referring 
to his future wife, remarked : " She is better 
than anything in Nature. In her particular 
way she is finer than anything to be found in 
antique art." Twelve years later she would 
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apjsear to have altered considerably, for in 
November, 1796, Sir Gilbert Elliott wrote : 
* Her person is nothing short of monstrous 
fc*r its enormity, and is growing every day; 
She tries hand to think size advantageous to 
her beauty, but is not easy about it. Her 
i.iee is beautiful* 

She died in comparative penury at Calais 
in 18 15, just ten years after the death of 
Nelson, whose romantic attachment to her is 
skj well known. 

The facility for capturing and reveal- 
ing the esprit — there is no English equiva- 

VvL \amii-— 9- 

lent — in a woman is well shown, though 
more subtly, In the portrait of Lady Craven. 
Two copies of this portrait were painted- 
one for General Smith and the other for 
Horace VValpole, who wrote the following 
lines in its honour :— 

Full many an artist has on canvas. nVd 

AH charms that Nature's pencil ever niix'd. — 

The witchery of Eves the Grace that tips 

The inexpressible douceur of Lips* 

kumucy alone in this fair image caught 

Each Charm's expression and each Feature's thought ; 

And shows ho*v m ihcfr sweet assemblage sit 




Lady Craven was a daughter of the Rarl of 
Berkeley, and married as her second husband, 
thirteen years after the portrait we give was 
painted, Christian Frederick, the Margrave of 
Arispach. She died at Naples in 1828. 

In John Hoppner we have the forerunner 
of I^awrence and the disciple of Romney. 
There is nothing impassioned ahum 
Hoppner, nor does he ever seek in his 
portraits of women after that joyous loveli- 
ness and liveliness which transcend physical 
symmetry and excel it. It is not a mere 
accident that many beautiful women appear 


on the canvases of a single painter as if he 
were luckier than his fellow-craftsmen in his 
sitters, h was Hoppner s task, by reason of 
his temperament, to remould the beaut) 
before him into a shape more consonant with 
his own partialities. This u shape" was, of 
course, not physical, although even here we 
note a rounding of undoubted angularities 
and the moulding of lines. Hoppner was a 
colourist He painted women as he saw 
them, but his women have none of the 
subtlety and maqic that the eye of Gains 
borough discerned, or the sensual splendour 





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which Romney adored in Lady Hamilton. 
An excellent example of his work is repro- 
duced in the portrait we give of Alary 
Countess of Oxford. 

She was the eldest daughter of the Rev. 
J. Scott, and wife ot the fifth Earl. The 
portrait, which is life-size, was painted in 
1797 and exhibited at the Royal Academy 
in the following year 

Far more mannered than any artist of his 
century is Thomas Gainsborough, whose 
fame as a painter of women has increased 
with the decades, and his work is more highly 
rated to day than that of any of his contem- 
poraries. Gainsborougjvs technique has 

something modern and personal about it. 
Had he ton fined himself to painting male 
portraits it is extremely doubtful whether he 
would occupy the pedestal he does today. 
He was fortunate in his sitters, but he savr 
them all through a spiritual lens of his own. 
All his portraits seem fours dc fonr, Their 
peculiar and extraordinary technique seems 
to overflow and outweigh their value as 
transcripts of humanity. Take the portrait 
of Mrs. Robinson* Close beside it in the 
Wallace Collection the same lady is painted 
by Reynolds. How differ e..:Iy each sees her. 
then in the height of her fame. 

To few ivonrarf Iporti given to lead such an 






eventful life as that which fell to the lot of 
iht beautiful Mary Robinson, prisoner and 
poet, actress and playwright, the friend of 
Royalty and the associate of princes, the story 
of whose career reads more like a chapter 
from a highly-coloured romance than thu 
bald narration of historical facts* 

Horn in Bristol in 1 75H of Irish parentage, 
she received at the early age of thirteen an 
offer of marriage from a captain in the Royal 
Navy. Three years later she was led to the 
altar by Thomas Robinson, an articled clerk, 
who was regarded by her mother as a man of 
means and expectations. Two years of un- 
happy married life then followed, at the end 

of which she shared the imprisonment of her 
husband, who was arreted for Am r 
ten months of incarceration she was released, 
and not till then can her career be considered 
to have begun* 

Through the good offices of David Garrick, 
who greatly interested himself in her, she 
made her debut at Drury Lane in 1776 as 
Juliet. The story of her remarkable beauty 
was not slow to reach the ears of the Prince 
of Wales (afterwards George IV.) } and a pas- 
sionate correspondence soon followed between 
" Florizd " (the pseudonym adopted by the 
Royal lover) and " Perdita/ 1 A meeting was 
eventually arranged at kevv, which proved to 


7 o 



By hoppnkr. 

be the first of many Romeo and Juliet like 
encounters. The liaison, however, did not 
last long. The Prince succumbed to the 
charms of a rival beauty, and " Perdita " 
received a cold note intimating that they 
must meet no more. 

The bond for twenty thousand pounds 
which had been executed in her favour and 
signed and sealed with the Royal Arms 
remained unpaid, and the discarded favourite 
was reduced to a state of poverty. To the 
stage she dared not return, knowing how 
openly she had compromised herself, and so 

sought refuge in Paris. Here she attracted 
much attention, and was presented with a 
purse netted by the hand* of Marie Antoinette 
fo'r — it is thought — repulsing the advances ot 
Philippe d'Qrleans. She eventually formed a 
close intimacy with a colonel in the [English 
Army, which lasted many years, and as the 
result of a journey undertaken on his behalf 
she was stricken down with a severe illness 
which produced a species of paralysis of the 
lower limbs. 

On December 20th, iSqq, Mary Robinson 
died, beautiful tbf UshBl last, but crippled and 




'MBS. S1DD0NS.' 


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impoverished. She has been described as a 
woman of singular charm, but vain, osten- 
tatious, fond of exhibiting herself, and want- 
ing in refinement. During her lifetime she 
published several volumes of poems, and one 
of her plays — a satire on women gamblers — 
was produced at Drury Lane. It was played 
two or three times amid scenes of great con- 
fusion, ladies of rank hissing or sending their 
servants to hiss. One of the principal per- 
formers threw up her part, saying that the 
piece was intended to ridicule her particular 

Mrs. Robinson was to be seen daily in an 
absurd chariot, with the favourite of the 
day as driver, and her husband and other 
fashionable fops as outriders. 

" To-day she was a paysanne with a straw 
hat tied at the back of her head, looking as 
if too new to what she passed to know what 
she looked at Yesterday she perhaps had 
been the dressed belle of Hyde Park, 
trimmed, powdered, patched, painted to the 
utmost power of rouge and white lead. To- 
morrow she would be the cravated Amazon 
of the riding-house ; but be she what she 
might, the hats of the fashionable pro- 
menaders swept the ground as she passed." 

Sarah Siddons, probably the greatest 
tragedienne England, if not the world, has 
ever seen, was the eldest daughter of Roger 
and Sarah Kemble, and thus from her 
earliest childhood had a close association 
with the stage. As a child she displayed 
marked dramatic ability, and was produced 
by her parents as an infant phenomenon. 
When twelve years of age she acted, so it is 
said, with some military amateurs in "The 
Grecian Daughter," and caused some wrath 
among her military associates by bursting 
into laughter in the midst of a tragic situa- 
tion. She was afterwards sent to be lady's 
maid to a lady in Warwickshire, where she 
used to recite Milton, Shakespeare, and 
Rowe in the servants' hall, sometimes before 
aristocratic company. 

Her first season at Drury Lane, where she 
was engaged by Garrick at a salary of five 
pounds a week, was an unmistakable failure, 
but the immense successes she subsequently 
met with in the provinces induced the London 
managers to give her another trial, and on the 
ioth of October, 1782, she reappeared at 
Drury Lane, playing Isabella in Garrick's 
version of Southerner " Fatal Marriage." 

The story of her triumph has now passed 
into history. So powerfully did her emotion 

Vol. xxxuL— 10. 

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affect the audience that many fainted and had 
to be carried out of the theatre. All London 
was at her feet and her position as England's 
leading actress was assured. 

One of her most ardent admirers was 
Samuel Johnson, who thought that she was a 
"prodigious fine woman." In Reynolds's 
picture of her as " The Tragic Muse " he wrote 
his name upon the hem of her garment. " I 
would not lose," he remarked, " the honour 
this opportunity affords me of going down to 
posterity on the hem of your garment." 

Hazlitt spoke of her as " not less than a 
goddess, or a prophetess inspired by the gods. 
Power was seated on her brow ; passion 
emanated from her breast as from a shrine." 

Those in front of the footlights were 
not the only ones to be influenced by her 
marvellous powers. Actors on the stage 
engaged for farce could not easily recover 
their spirits after seeing her in tragedy. 
Charles Young, when acting with her as 
Beverley, was so impressed as to lose his 
power of utterance, and it was not until 
Mrs. Siddons said to him in a low voice, 
" Mr. Young, recollect yourself," that he 
recovered speech. 

In her conversation she was apt to talk in 
rhythmic phrase. Scott, whom she used to 
visit, was accustomed to mimic her speech 
to an attendant at dinner : — 

" You've brought me water, boy ; I asked 
for beer." 

In 181 2 she took her benefit at Covent 
Garden, appearing as Lady Macbeth in the 
sleep-walking scene (said to be beyond all 
doubt her greatest impersonation), and from 
this time to the year of her death in 1831 she 
lived in comparative retirement. 

Her physical gifts were great. Her face 
was noble ; her tall figure, which was at first 
slender and eminently graceful, was always 
dignified and statuesque ; but in her later 
days she became unwieldy, and had to be 
assisted when she rose. To divert attention 
from this the other actresses received similar 

Mrs. Siddons yields to us nothing of her 
soul in Gainsborough's portrait. We see a 
beautiful, stately woman, but completely on 
her guard, with no hint of what may lie 
behind that serene self-possession. That is 
the great triumph of Romney. He captured 
his women, so to speak, off their guard, for 
which reason we are inclined to award 
Romney the premier place amongst the 
Georgian artists as a portrayer of the sex. 

Original from 

^ RROT- 



^or\ • 

ILL WRAGG, dealer in dogs, 
birds, and guinea- pigs, is a 
friend I have introduced 
already, when I told the story 
of his champion fox-terrier. I 
learned that history (and some 

others) before, in a burst of candour aided 

by rum and milk, he confided to me the true 

tale of his start in business. He began in 

the parrot line, as I think I have hinted 

elsewhere, with a 

capital of nothing 

and no parrots. The 

old rascal has more 

than once taken me 

into his confidence 

in the matter of 

his business exploits. 

He had a quaint 

manner in the tell- 
ing of such a tale — 

elliptic, i mplicit, 

clothing his scoun- 

drelisms in terms of 

mere business, and 

skirting tortuously 

anything like an ad- 
mission of the roguery 

J" . m fl<4 V&c;iNKtN'HU4INK» WITHOUT CAPITAL,/ 

" Beginnin* business said b^l wka^;, wiping his pipe with 

■-.U I m u I pi 'A A R1ED-5POTTK3 HANDKfcKCHifcF, * IS ALL 

without capital, said A matte* u credit/- 

Digitized by ^CTOQ J L 

Bill Wragg, wiping his pipe with a red-spotted 
handkerchief, " is all a matter o* credit, o" 
course. Lots o' people begin on credit, air 
do very well ; an' different people get their 
credit different ways. I begun on credit, an 1 
I got my credit from perfitk strangers, quite 

M I was frightful J ard up just then — stony- 

broke j in fact. Pd been lookin ? out for odd 

jobs 'ere an* there, an 1 get tin 5 precious few ol 

'em. Last job Vd had 

was down Wappin 1 way. 

givin' a hand at a foreign 

animal shop where the 

reg'lar chap was away ill 

The guv'nor, he give me 

a suit o' clothes to 

begin with, 'cause be 

said mine 'ud disgrace 

the shop, an so they 

would. The new 

clothes wasn't new 

altogether — a sailor 

bloke had died in 'em 

a fortnight afore, at a 

crimp's; but they was 

all right, an' I took ii 

mighty generous o J the 

guv 'nor till the end o 

the week, an* then 'e 

1 stopped ? em out o* my 




wages. Well j Fd been gone away from 
that job a long time an r there didn't seem 
another job to be had ; so, bein 1 stony-broke, 
as I just said, I thought I might as well set 
up for myself. 

" It was the clothes that give me the idea 
to begin with — them bein 1 of a seafarin' sort ; 
just the sort o 1 things a man might wear as 
was bringin 5 'omea parrot. An 3 what put the 
idea into movin 1 shape was me passizr a little 
coal office — one o T them little shanties where 
a clerk sits all day to take orders. I knew 
that place, consequence of a friend o s mine 
'avin' done a little business there about a 
dawg with the clerk ; It was a careless bit o' 
business, as might ha' got my friend in trouble 
if the clerk 'ad n't gone an J died almost at 
once. Well, this clerk's name was Dobbs, 
sm\ rememberin' that, I thought I see my 
way to raisin* a bit o f credit 

11 1 just went into the office all gay an 3 
friendly, an' 'Good artemoon/ I says to the 
uoo clerk. c Good arternoon ; is Mr. Dobbs 
in? 1 

" l No,' says he ; £ Mr. Dobbs is dead. 
Been dead six months/ 

" l DmdV says L * What ? 
Btadf My dear oV pal Dobbs? 
No, it can't be true/ I says, 

tti It is true/ says the phap. 
'Anyway, I see the funeral, an 1 
IVe got his job/ 

" ' Well, now/ I says, ■ who- 
ever V believed it? Poor oY 
Dobbs ! When I went on my last 
voyage I left him as well an 1 J arty 
as ever I see anybody I This is a 
awful shock for me/ I says, 

"The clerk was rather a dull- 
look in 1 sort o* chap, with gig-lamps, 
an" he just nodded his head. 

"'Quite a awful shock/ I says. 
1 Why, I brought 'ome a parrot for 
'ira ! A lovely parrot — talks like a 
— like a angel an' whistles any toon 
you like. I come here to see him 
about it ! It's a awful shock/ 

H ' Yes/ says gig- lamps, * it was 
rather sudden/ 

Ml Sudden ain't the word,' I says; 
1 it's positive catastrophageous. An' 
what am I to do with that beautiful 
panot? I can't take it away with 
me ■ the new skipper wouldn't stand 
it— Vs a terror. Besides, I couldn't 
bear to be reminded of poor ol 1 
Dobbs every time I see 'is lovely 
ploomage or 'eard 'im talk— talks 
just like Dan Leno, does that 

bird. What am I to do with it ? Tm a 
lonely sort o' chap, an' haven't got a soul in 
the world to give it to, now poor oV Dobbs 
is gone, If I only knowed a nice kind 
'ome for it Fd — but hold on/ I says, all of a 
sudden ; ' how about you ? Will you have it ? 
Eh ? I don't b'tieve you'd treat sich a 'and- 
some bird unkind, would you ? I'll give 'im 
to you^ an 5 welcome, if you'll take care of 'im. 
'Fsa valuable bird, too, but, o* course, I don't 
want to make money out of 'im. Come, you 
shall have him ! ' 

" I could see old gig-lamps was gettin' 
interested, thinkin' he was in for a 'andsome 
present. A Hem ! ' he says ; ' it's very kind of 
you, an' of course I'll have the bird with 
pleasure, an' take every care of him; very 
kind of you indeed, I'm sure it is.' 

Si * That's all right/ I says ; ' it's nothing to 
me, so long as pore Peter get's a good 'ome* 
Peters his name/ I says. * I'll go an' fetch 
him along 'ere. Got a cage ? ' 

" l Why, no/ says he. * I ain't got a cage/ 

M f Must 'ave a cage/ says L * The one 
he's in now don't belong to me. Must ave 


"talk's just liics iji*"i liHJibS Ictfes" B'iuiT bihd, 


7 6 


a cage. What are you goin' to do about office 
h? 1 

" ' ' I dunno/ says gig-lamps, lookin' 'el pi ess, 
11 f A good parrot-cage comes a bit dear to 
buy new/ I says. * But there's a fine second- 
hand one you might get cheap just over in 
Walworth. I'll mind the office while you go.' 
" * No/ he says ; ' I can't leave the place/ 
Of course, I knowed that well enough— it 

•I'm a 
a fine 

was part o J the game, ' I can't leave the 
place/ says he, * I s'pose you couldn't see 
about it? 1 

"'Well/ says I, thoughtful like, 
bit busy, but pVaps I might. ' It's 
cage an* worth a price, but, properly managed, 
I might try and get it for five bob, though I 
expect it'll be more. Anyhow/ I says, * give 
me the five bob, an' if I have to pay any 
more you can let me have the difference 
arterwards.' 1 just puts out my hand, casual, 
an' in drops the five bob. So I went out 
that much to the good in credit." 

Here I fear I exhibited something peri- 
lously like 

" Credit 

a grin, "Credit or cash?" I 



sir/' Bill replied, virtu- 
ously. "Cash an 1 credit's the same thing 
with a man o' business like me, I went out 
with that five bob, an' I put in threepence of 
it for a small drink that I wanted very bad 
arter bein J without so long. 
I had my drink an' I thought 
things over, an' I made up 
my mind that ten bob was 
just twice as useful as five 
to start business with, an' 
there was just such another 
office of the same 
coal company 
only a penny 
tram ride off, that 
might be good for 
another crown. 
So I took that 
penny tram - ride 
an' found the 
other office. It 
was a much 
smarter, brisker- 
look in* chap at 
this place, I 
found, but I went 
at him the same 
w T av 

says the new 
chap, 4 Noj he 
used to be up 
at the next 

along the road there l but he's dead 

"'Dead? 1 says L 'What, my ol' pal 
Dobbs ? ' And I did it all over again for tk 
new chap. I think the trouble was worth 
the money and more, but a chap mustn't be 
afraid o' work when he's beginnin' business 
with no capital. So I did it all again very 
careful, an J when I came to offerin 1 him the 
parrot he was ready enough. 

"■Why, rather/ he says; 'I'll have him, 
Fm very fond o* birds. A parrot's just what 
I want. 1 

11 ' All right/ says I, l you shall have him w* 
welcome, Til fetch him along here/ Sol 
starts round to go and pitches back the old 
question from the door. 'Got a cage?' 
says I. 

"This time I got a bit of a surprise 
* Cage ? 3 says he ; * oh, yes, I've got a cage- 
got a stunner that belonged to my aunt. A 
parrot's just what 1 wanted to put in it 
Here it is. 1 

" An' he went into the little cubbyhole u 
the back an* dragged out a fust-rate brass 
cage as good as new. It wasn't what Id 
expected, a coincidence like that, but it don't 
do to be took aback at little changes o' luck. 
'All right/ says I, 'that'll do.' An 1 I laid 
'old o' the cage an' slung out with it. 


KD OUT A FU5T-RATi;'|ljl^n^t#Bri|l»0Ol> AS SEW/ 




"Some chaps mightn't have the presence 
o' mind for that, havin' only the five bob 
in their minds, but a man o' business is 
got to be ekal to anything as comes along, 
an' this 'ere cage was worth a sight more'n 
the five bob, anyhow. So there I was, a 
business man at large, with the rest o ; five 
bob an' a fust-class brass parrot-cage, on 
credit, to begin business with. 

" Well* the best parrot-cage in the world 
ain't complete without a parrot, so I see very 
well that the next move ought to be towards 
a bird o' that specie, I brought to mind a 
very nice one I'd often seen in a quiet road 
not very many streets away, one as belonged 
to a nice old lady in a very nice 'ouse with 
a front garden to it. I'd seen that parrot 
stood outside for an airin' o J 
fine arternoons, an* I hurried 
up now to get there before it 
was took in. You see, the 
;old gal hadn't got anything 
like so fine a cage as this 
brass one, an* I'd an idea her 
parrot an' my cage 'ud go to- 
gether well. But it all de- 
pended, you see, on the old 
lady bein' in sight 
or not whether 
my cage went out- 
side T er parrot— 
at a price — or J er 
parrot went in- 
side my cage — 
for no t h in \ 
There'd be more 
business in the 
last arrangement, 
o' course, but you 
have to take the 
best you can get 
in these 'ard 

"I hurried up, an' when I came to the 
place I see the parrot there all right, stand in 1 
outside on a garden chair. I just strolled in 
an' up the gravel path, swinging the brass 
cage on my finger an' lookin' round for the 
old lady. I couldn't see her nor anybody 
else , so I went up to the parrot an' had a 
look at him. He was a fine, 'andsome bird, 
an' the cage he had wasn't good enough for 
birn by a lot. It was just an ornery sort o' 
iron wire cage, half wore out, an 1 the fas- 
tenin' was pretty nigh droppin' off with rust. 
It was plain enough it was my cage that bird 
ought to be in T not a wore- out old thing like 
the one he'd got. I had a look round to 
make sure nobody was about, an* then I took 


'old o' that rusty old catch an* it came open 
afore I could ha : winked," 

** Surprising ! " I interjected. ll And then 

I suppose the parrot flew straight into the 
brass cage ? " 

" No, sir/' Bill Wragg answered, calmly ; 

II you're s'posin' wrong. That wouldn't be a 
likely thing for it to do. I might ha' made it 
a bit more likely by shoviiV the open door o' 
one cage agin the other, but that would ha' 
looked suspicious, an' I wasn't quite sure that 
somebody mightn't be a-peepin ? from some- 
where. Why, they might ha' thought I wanted 
to steal the bird ! You'd scarcely believe 'ow 
suspicious people are. As it was, you see, it 
was not hi n' but a accident as might have 
occurred to anybody. I was just bringing in 

a nice cage to sell, an' havin J a 
loot at the okl 'un while I was 
lookin' about for the lady." 


"Yes, of course, I said, as solemnly as 
I could manage, "Of course," 

" Well, sir, you'd hardly believe it, but that 
parrot no sooner found the door open than 
he flew out. Nothin 1 to do with me, o' 
course, but he did fly out, an' quite properly 
I went arter him. I'd been the cause o' the 
accident, you see, in a sort of way, so I 
thought I ought to do what I could to catch 
the bird — only fair an' proper. He flew out 
over the railings an' down the road, an' I 
went out of the gate aiV trotted down the road 
arter him. He 'lighted fust on a tree at the 
corner, so I lets fly a stone an' started him 
off o' that, an' away he went down the side 
street an* along another turn in'. 




44 Arter that it was plain sailin' — all but the 
actual ketchin' of 'im. You can pretty easy 
keep a parrot in sight — he takes a rest 
somewhere every fifty yards or so. Nobody 
hadn't noticed in the quiet streets, but as 
soon as we got out a bit into the traffic the 
crowd got bigger every second, all huntin' 
the parrot, an' all ready to give 'im to me 
as soon as he was caught. 'Cause why ? I 
dunno. I was just a-runnin' arter him with 
a open cage in my hand, that's all. / 
never said he was my parrot. But every- 
body else kep' sayin' he was, an' it's a waste 
o' time to start contradictin' a crowd. So 
I kep' well up in the mob, an' kep' a look- 
out in case the old lady should turn up, or 
one o' them coal-office clerks. The crowd 
kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger, an' I got to be 
sich a celebrated an' conspickious character 
I began to feel a bit uncomfortable about it. 
You wouldn't think there was such a lot o' 
fools about ready to come crowdin'up an' 
shoutin' an' rousin' up the parish just 
because of a parrot gettin' loose. O' course, 
I expected there'd be a bit of a crowd, but I 
hadn't looked for quite sich a row as this, an' 
I didn't want it, neither. 'There 'e is — 
that's 'im ! ' they was a-sayin'. * That sea- 
farin'-lookin' bloke with the empty cage — 'e's 
lost 'is parrot ' Celebrity an' fame's all very 
well in its place, but a man o' business, 
settin' up for 'isself on credit, like me, don't 
want too much of it at once. An' the wust 
of it was, that there rediklus parrot was 
a-workin' 'is way nearer an' nearer to the 
main road with the tram-lines on it an' them 
coal-offices one at each end, an' the 'ole 
neighbourhood turnin' out as we went along. 

44 But nothin' lasts for ever, an' in the end 
he 'lighted on the sill of a attic winder at a 
corner 'ouse o' the main road, an' a slavey 
that was in the attic, she claps a towel over 
him an' stands there screamin' at the winder 
for fear he might peck through the towel. 

44 4 All right, miss,' I sings out ; 4 'old tight ! 
He won't bite ! I'm a-comin\' 

44 So they lets me in the front door, civil as 
butter, an' I goes up to the attic an' in about 
half a quarter of a minute pretty Polly was 
inside the brass cage, as 'andsome and soot- 
able as you please. I told the slavey she 
was the smartest an' prettiest gal I'd seen 
since fust I went a-sailin' on the stormy 
ocean, an' 'ow I wished I was a bit younger 
an' 'andsomer myself, for 'er sake, so it 
didn't cost me nothin', which was a bit o' 
luck, for I'd been countin' on havin' to fork 
out a bob to somebody for collarin' that 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

44 Well, the crowd began to melt a bit 
when I come out, the excitement bein' over, 
but I didn't like the look o' things much, so 
I made up my mind I'd get the job over as 
soon as I could. I didn't know when the 
old lady might turn up, an' though, o' course, 
I was only tryin' to ketch her parrot for her, 
what had got out accidental, things might V 
looked suspicious. Still, o' course, any- 
body could see that if I'd been a thief I'd 'a' 
walked off with the bird an' cage an' all to 
begin with. A proper man o' business alius 
arranges things like that, for fear of accidents. 
Men o' business as ain't clever enough to 
manage it is nothin' but dishonest persons, 
an' liable to be took up. 

44 There was a fine big pub across the road, 
at a corner a little farther down — sich a fine 
pub that it was a hotel, with a proper hotel 
entrance at one side, with plants in tubs an' 
red carpets. It looked a sort o' place that 
could afford a price, so I went in — not the 
hotel entrance, but just the other side, where 
there was a choice of three or four bar com- 
partments. I went in the private bar, an' 
got on to the landlord straight away as soon 
as I'd ordered a drink. 

44 4 1 wanted that drink,' I says, 4 arter the 
chase I've 'ad for this parrot Not but what 
he ain't worth it — I don't b'lieve you could 
match a parrot like that, not in the Z'logical 
Gardens. I meant him for my dear ol' pal 
Dobbs, at the coal-office along the road, as 
you might ha' known afore he died. When 
I 'eard the sad noos, I thought I'd take 'im 
up to Leaden'all Market an' sell 'im ; 'e's 
worth ten quid of anybody's money, is that 
bird, an' the cage 'ud be cheap at a couple. 
But I managed to let him loose — my fault, 
through fiddlin' with the catch o' the cage- 
door. An' 'e's led me sich a dance, it'll be 
too late for me to git up to the market now.' 

44 The parrot had been a-straightenin' of 
his feathers out an' makin' hisself tidy arter 
the scramble, an' just at this very moment 
he gives a sort o' little grumble to hisself an' 
then raps out, 4 Pretty Poll ! Halloa 1 Shut 

44 4 Hear him talk ! ' I says. 4 He'll go on 
like that all day, an' say anything you please. 
What an ornament he'd be to this 'andsome 
bar o' yours ! People'd come a-purpose to 
see him. Come,' I says, 4 you shall have him 
for five pound, cage an' all ! How's that ? ' 
says I. 

44 Well, the landlord was quite on to buy 
him, but, o' course, he wouldn't do it without 
a haggle— 'twasn't likely. But arter a bit we 
settled it at three quid, an' he handed over 




the bird an' the 

it < 

4 You 

What are 
goin' to 
says L 
can see 


the jemmies. An J cheap it was, too. So he 
stood the cage up on the top o' where a 
partition joined the bar-screen, where every- 
body could see him, an' said he J d have a 
proper shelf made for him to-morrow, I 
didn't hang about much arter that, you may 
guess. But as soon as I got into the street 
who should I see but the clerk from the coal- 
office, the one that had sprung the five bob, 
talking to a chap as was point in* to the pub. 
Of course, the fust thing I thought of was a 
bolt, but afore 1 could make up my mind he 
caught sight o 5 me j so up I went as bold 
as brass. 

"'Halloa!' says I, 'that there parrot o' 
yours 7 as led me a pretty dance. Got out 
o* the cage an' kep' me all the arternoon 
chasm* him/ 

" * Yes,' says old gig-lamps^ * I wondered 
where you'd got to, but when I shut the 
office I heard about a parrot bein' loose, an* 
that man told me you'd brought it in here.' 

" 'Quite right,' says I,' ( an' so I did. Come 
in yourself an' see it But the cage ain't 
settled for yet/ I says, * an' it'll cost you five 
bob more at least, though the chap's askin* 
ten more.' 

* l So I led him into the compartment on 
one side o' the partition, an* showed him 

wnd hi 

sort of a 
cage it is — two 
quid's nearer its 
real price than 
ten bob.' 

"Old gig-lamps 
calls for whisky 
an* soda for two, 
an' says * Pretty 
Polly!' to the 
bird, same as 
what any cus- 
tomer might do, 
and then he hands 
me over another 
five bob. 

" ■ I think hell 
take ten bob/ says 
I, 'an' I'll just 
run round an' see, 
if you'll wait here/ 
14 1 was in a 
extra hurry, you 
see, for a very 
good reason. He was sittin' down, but I 
was standin* up an' kcepin' a weather eye on 
the street outside ; an' there who should I 
see, starin' up at the pub front, but the clerk 
from the other coal-office ! ' What - ho ! * 
thinks I ; * this tale o' the parrot hunt's got 
about, an' things is warmm' up! ' So I skips 
out quick, an' ketches the chap by the arm, 

" l Halloa ! * says he ; ' what about that 
parrot ? * 

" t 'Ain't you heard?' says L *He got out 
o' the cage an J led me no end of a dance. 
But he's all right/ 1 says, an' I led the chap 
off to another compartment, away from 
his pal. 

tl ■ I did hear about it/ says he, * an' that's 
why I came here. I began to wonder where 
you'd got to.' 

" i All right/ says I ; * he's safe enough — I 
left him in charge o' the landlord an' was 
a-comin' along arter you, 'cos 1 wanted to tell 
you something private. The fact is/ I says, 
whisperin' in his ear, a the landlord's took a 
great fancy to that parrot He's fair mad on 
it, O' course, the parrot's yours, an' you can 
sell it or not, just as you please. But if you 
do sell it, don't take less than ten pound ; an 1 
if you get ten pound —well, I think I ought 
to have a quidflfrfttf rWti of it, oughtn't I, 




seem' as I give you the bird ? Thafs fair, 
ain't it ? ' says I. 

" ' Yes/ says he, ' that's all right. If I get 
a tenner for it, I'll see you afterwards/ 

" * All right,' says I. ' You come in an' sit 
down, an' don't say nothing about it. You 
mustn't seem anxious to sell. I told the 
landlord I was goin' to see the owner, an' 
I'll go round the back way an' talk him con- 
fidential into givin' a good price. You lie 
low till I give you the tip.' 

"So he goes in an' sees his cage there all 
safe with the parrot in it, an' he orders his 
drink an' sits down quiet. I thought o' 
rushin' round into the private bar an' tellin' 
the landlord he was a chap comin' to offer a 
price for the bird, just to mix things up a bit 
while I got away. But when I got outside 
there was another surprise, s'elp me. It was 
just gettin' dusk, an' there was the poor old 
lady as had lost her parrot, with a handker- 
chief over her head an' the cage in *er 'and, 
coniiri' down the road disconsolate, lookin' 
up at the houses after her bird ! 

"When you've got a run o' luck, foller it 
up. That's my motto. It was a bit of a 
risk, but I skipped across the road an' said, 
'Beg pardon,, mum, but was you a-lookin' 
for a parrot ? ' 

" ' Oh, yes,' she says. ' Have you seen it ? 
If you'll only help me find my poor bird I'll 
be so grateful ! I didn't know he'd got out 
till I went to bring the cage in. Several 
people told me he'd come along this road an' 
been caught/ says she. 'Is that true? Do 
you know who's got him ? • 

" ' Yes, mum/ says I. ' I can put you on 
the track at once. Your parrot's in that 
public-'ouse opposite, havin' been took there 
by the man as caught it. I'll see about it for 
you, mum/ I says. 'You come across -an' 
sit down in the hotel en- 
trance, mum. It's quite 
respectable there, mum. 
The man what's got it is a 
low sort o' chap, mum — a 
coalheaver, name o' Dobbs, 
a-sittin' in the jug depart- 
ment. You can see your 
bird from the hotel entrance, 
mum, stood up on a par- 
tition. O' course, a rough 
feller like that Dobbs 
wouldn't be allowed in the 
hotel entrance, an' a lady 
like you couldn't go into the 
jug department. Til see 
about it. I expect he'll cut 
up rough an' want to claim 

Digitized by Google 

the bird, mum, but Til see you git your 
rights, mum ! ' 

"'Oh, thank you/ says the old gal; 'I 
shall be so grateful if you will ! I've been so 
distressed at the idea of losin' my dear 
Polly ! If you will get him back 111 be mosi 
grateful. Of course, I'll pay a reward/ 

"'Jesso, mum/ I says, 'jesso. But not 
more'n half a sovereign. I'll see you ain't 
swindled, mum/ I says. ' That chap Dobbs 
'ud be extortionate, but not a/arden more'n 
half a sovereign, mum/ says I, * if youll 
allow me to advise you. Til see to it for 
you, mum. You just sit down in the hotel 
entrance, mum, an' give me the half- 
sovereign, an' I'll talk to him firm. It's the 
only way with these low characters. Ill 
talk to him firm, an' mention the p'lice. Til 
see about it for you, mum ! ' 

" So I sits the old girl down with her bird- 
cage on the settee in the hotel entrance, takes 
her half quid, an' — well, I left 'er there an' 
hooked it round the first turnin' an' travelled 
straight ahead, fast, for the next half- hour. 

"That made pretty near four quid alto- 
gether, raised on credit In my business a 
chap as can't start very well on four quid 
ain't fit to start at all, an' I done very well, 
startin' on credit, like I'm a-tellin' you." 

" And you've never met any of your 
creditors since?" I asked. 

" No, sir, I ain't. My business don't seem 
to take me that way. It's just a book debt, 
you see — just a book debt They can't 
complain. What they was all arter— the two 
coal clerks, the landlord, an' the old lady — 
what they paid for, was nothin' but the 
parrot an' the cage, an' there it was for them, 
with them all round it They couldn't 
expect more'n that, could they?" 

For the first time during the story I could 
detect an indistinct chuckle 
from somewhere deep in 
Bill Wragg's throat. 

" There's just one thing I 
was sorry for," he said, "but 
then you can't 'ave every- 
thing. I should 'a' liked to 
'a' seen the shindy when 
them respectable parties got 
tired o' waitin', an' began to 
start in an' try to settle it 
all among 'emselves ! I'd 
almost 'a' give a quid back 
to 'ear 'ow they did settle 
it! But that 'ud be a 
^^^T^^^-^^_ luxury, an' a man o' busi- 
Jj \ ^"^* ness starting on credit 

"**"""* can't afford luxuries ! " 

Original from 


Portraits of Celebrities at Different Ages—New Series. 


an intellect which, had he possessed neither 
of the first three gifts, would still have gained 
for him the last. 

Anyone can obtain from a handy hook of 
reference the main facts of Mr. Balfour's life 
—his birth in 1848, his successful University 
career, and his appointment as private 
secretary to the late Lord Salisbury, which 
carried him by quick, successive periods to 

Front a Photo, bit Mauli £ IW^lani. 

IVE me my books, my golf- 
clubs, and leisure," wrote 
Mr. Balfour to a friend, 
" and I would ask for 
nothing more. My ideal in 
life is to read a lot, write a 

little, play plenty of golf, and have nothing to 

worry about. If I could give up politics and 

retire to-morrow without disorganizing things 

and neglecting my duty, I would gladly do so." 
It is a proof of Mr. Balfour's 

great abilities that, in spite of 

his innumerable activities in 

politics and his known sense 

of duty, he yet finds time 

to do what he wants. He 

reads a lot, writes a little 

plays plenty of golf, and, if 

we may trust what we hear of 

his disposition, has nothing 

to worry about. In maiiy 

ways he is a veritable child 

of the fairies. He is the 

happy possessor of the four 

FV- fortune, family, friends, 

and fame — any one of which 

should make easy the path of 

an ordinary man's life. In 

addition to these, he owns 

Vol n if wiii — n. 

AliK 2 1. 

Prvtti a fMo by Hilt* it- 

Fhoia. by HUH 

From n Pliotv. by MM* & & h mien, Etun. 

the Irish Secretaryship, the leadership of 
the House of Commons, and, in twenty- eight 
years from the time he 
cnu ml Parliament, to the 
Premiership. The very dates 
in that career speak volumes. * 
Of more immediate interest, 
however, is the man himself. 
What, you ask, is the real Mr. 
Balfour like ? For reply you 
need only glance at the pic- 
tures taken from his boyhood 
to the present to discover a 
genial softness of nature which 
has made him so well liked 
personally even by his bitter 
political opponents, As the 
late I)r + Tanner, M.P., once 
said, referring to Mr. Balfour's 
work in the House during 
a *™*Pt-J "ERfiff'^^hhlil^ls^.JpN the Irish 



Secretaryship : " He tells 
us with exquisite polite- 
ness that we are fools 
when we meet him here, 
and he sends lis to jail 
when we arc in Ireland, 
But he has siuh a charm- 
ing way with him that 
nobody can help liking 
him." This comment, to 
a large extent, sums up 
the personality —we mi^ht 
almost say the dual per- 
sonality — of Mr Bid four. 
His is a mil are seemingly 

From a Photo- ftp Hvnhutyh, Edinburgh. 

full of contradictions. He gives you 
to understand that his indolence is 
profound, yet he works like a slave. 
He calls himself a " child " in 
many matters of State, yet handles 
these matters with a remarkable know- 
ledge of statecraft and a surprising 
foresight of results. His very bearing 
suggests a languid unfitness for the per- 
formance, at decisive moments, of great 
tasks, yet he has come through several 
trials triumphantly which demanded 
dogged courage and an iron hand. Kven 
at the present day, when he has been 
thirty- two years before the public, he 
remains a puzzle, Some say, so far as 
his literary work is concerned, that he 
is not a great philosophic thinker, but 
a mere controversialist. In regard to 
his political abilities, some say he is 
merely an aristocrat in politics, not a 
constructive statesman with originality of 

method, and they call him 
** breaker/ 1 not "maker." 
x\nd, it may be added, the 
publicists who have quar- 
relled over this particular 
puzzle have been very 
able men. 

There is no better 
speaker m the House of 
Commons than Mr. 
Balfour. Our old friend 
"Toby, M.R t " says that 
his range " is exceptionally 
wide. He can, and fre- 
quently does, make the 
House roar with laughter, 
and upon meet occasion is 
capable of simply touch- 
ing the chord of pathos, 
He has the gift, valuable 
to a Leader of the House 
of Commons, of being able to speak on almost 
any subject without laboured preparation* The 
great majority of his speeches are deliu-R-il 
without notes," This power of speech, be it 
noted, is not a gift, but an acquisition through 
hard work and continual practice. In his early 
days Mr + Balfour was a distinct failure as a 
s| >eaker, so that his success to-day should be 
a stimulus to effort in every timid orator. 

* w " ) 'DIVERSITY Of MICHIGAN t*« -*— »■ 


THE R,nHT H0N ' ^^iMiHfci 



By J. J, Bell. 

|OME awa J , Peter/' said Mrs, 
Peebles, a little sharply. 
11 Wre late for yer tea again I 
Whaur ha'e ye been since 
dormer time ? Eh ? " 

The old man entered the 
kitchen smiling, and seated himself at the 
table without reply. 

*' Ha'e ye been doon at the docks again ? " 
his wife inquired, as she removed the brown 
teapot from the hob to the bright green 
woolly mat on the table. 

"Jist that," said Mr. Peebles, mildly. 

Mrs. Peebles made an ini[3atient gesture, 
but checked an 
impatient remark. 
** Ask a bless in 1 , 
Peter," she said, 

Peter obeyed, 
and then attacked 
the buttered toast 
with a hearty 

Presently he 
looked at his wife, 
still smiling , and 
observed :■ — 

"It's an ill 
thing to manage 
is a young hert in 
an auld body, 
Bess, Is it no?'* 

"Tits !" mut- 
tered Mrs. Peebles. 
11 You an' yer auld 

Mr. Peebles 
finished his slice 
of toast and helped himself to another, 

M I suppose ye've been think in'," he 
resumed, " it wis a peety I ever retired frae 
wark, I used to be as reg ? lar as the clock, 
but noo Pm aye late for ma tea, as ye say. 
Ay, I doot I'll ha'e to try an' get anilher job, 
Bess. Whit think ye?" 

" I think ye Ye jist a haver ! " 

" I doot I wudna get anither foresman's 
job, an J Pm feart Maister Harvey wud think 
it gey queer if I wis to wark for ither folk an* 
draw a pension frae his firm — an' a guid 

pension for bye. But it'll never dae for you 
to ha'e a man that's drappin' intil irreglar 
habits^ as they say j an J so ye*ve jist got to 
say the word, Bess, an* Pll— — " 

" Oh, baud yer tongue, man, baud yer 
tongue ! " cried Mrs, Peebles, " But— but I 
ken yeVe no serious." 

" Pm no sae shair aboot that, I'm maybe 
three score an J ten, but Pve better health an 1 
mair strength nor mony o J fifty, 'Deed, ay! 
I wis he! pin' some lads doon at the docks 
the day at a big vessel that wis dischairgin' 
wudd, an'- " 

"Ye wis whit?" 

"Qeh, naethin\ Never heed." 


" Whit wis ye daein* at the docks the day, 
Peter ? " his wife demanded, with great 

M Oh, jist —a — jist gi'enV some lads a 
haun\ ye ken," said the old man, unwilling] v. 

"Li ft in' wudd?" 

"'Mphrn ! That wis aboot the size o* T t. 
I maun dae something, ye ken. I'm owei 
strong to dae naethin\" 

Mrs. P^ttJFfflilPfl^ her hands in horror. 
" I^MSliV ElvKifiBr" 4EIF ttthCWiKAU ! J3 she wailed. 
"Peter Peebles, whit am I to dae wP ye?" 




e ? the lads 

r traivels, 

Jeve ony- 

^t severe," 

We ken I 

<$Qoks is 

*e's nae- 

Yi o' the 

^s and the 

dd doon at 

more gently. 

range places 

liftin' wudd ! 

Mr. Peebles 

fulness. " I 

an' he said 

warld an' 

rds wi' that 

a o' us for 
" Eh ! but 
the warld, 

cauld. An' 

eter, ye may 

auld body— 


rid since I 

year back. 

in Glesca. 

ee hoose to 

up to mak' 

ppy mairrit ; 

ur auld age 

ant, Peter ? " 

I suppose 

se Pd better 

ks. It's the 

nae doot. I 

time to hing 

often aboot 

"But ye 

that ye wud 

noo— if ye 

" he said, 

" Wud ye 


by Google 

ha'e us leave wur hame — an' maybe never 
come back— at wur time o' life?" 

" We're no that auld. We're no ower auld 
to enjey wursePs." 

" Weel, I never ! Fancy twa auld buddies 
like us yins gaun roon : the warld ! I yinst 
gaed roon' the warld wi' a maygic lantren in 
the kirk ha' — an* that wis enough for me." 

Mr. Peebles laughed good-humouredly. 
" Ye wud shin come wi' me if we had the 
siller. Weel, dae ye want me to stop gaun 
aboot the docks, Bess ? " he asked. 

" Havers ! But dinna get cairrit awa' in 
yin o' the ships, Peter. An' nae mair liftin' 
wudd, if ye please ! See's yer cup, an' eat 
up yer toast. Dearie me ! Talkin' aboot 
gaun roon' the warld, an' him jist seeventy ! 
Aw, ye'll ha'e to bide wi' me a whiley yet, 
Peter — till ye grow up." 

Mrs. Peebles laughed at her own little 
irony, and her husband took it kindly. 

" But it's a peety, " he said, thoughtfully, 
" to leeve in a fine, big warld an' see hardly 
onything furder nor yer ain doorstep. Pm 
thinking the Lord'll be a wee thing vexed at 
the Day o' Judgment wi' the rich folk that 
aye stoppit at hame. Weil ha'e a guid 
excuse, Bess ; but I doot some rich folk, 
unless they're blin' or lame, il feel gey sma' 
when the Lord speirs at them hoo they liket 
the wonders in Ameriky an' Jamaicy an' 
Fiji an' Greenland an' Australia an* Japan 
an' " 

" Ye've been readin' ower muckle aboot 
furrin pairts," said Mrs. Peebles, severely. 
" An' ye sudna talk o' the Day o' Judgment 
as if it wis gaun to be a time for jography 
clesses an' the like. Ha'e some jeelly." 


One spring evening a little less than six 
months after the foregoing conversation 
Peter came home —rather late, as usual — from 
the docks, to learn that he was the legal heir 
to a sum of nearly two thousand pounds. 
He could but faintly remember the brother 
whose death abroad had brought him the 
wealth, but any doubts he had as to his good 
fortune were speedily cleared away by the 
firm of lawyers acting in the matter. The 
money was clearly Peter's, and he could have 
it almost immediately. 

Mrs. Peebles, after the first emotion, 
accepted the windfall calmly. She and Peter 
had already enough to live on ; the money 
would be a fine thing for their children and 
grandchildren. Peter agreed with her jj^rely 
— or almost so. 

" But whit in a' the warld dae 




keep fewer hunner pounds for? *' asked Mrs* 
Peebles, one night, some weeks after the 
advent of the fortune, " We carina dae ony- 
thing wi* it. Toi no sayin 3 ye've dealt 
onything but generous-like wi' the bairns, 
but they micht as weel get the halt thing, fur 
it's nae use to you an' me." 

Peter chuckled. 

"Is't no?" he said. "D'ye ken, wife, 
that ye can gang roon' the warld, first-cless, 
for twa hunner pounds? An' twice twa is 
fewer — that's you an J me ! Eh ? " 

Mrs, Peebles regarded him with a stunned 
expression. She 
had no words. 

"They say," 
went on Peter, 
"that every- 
thing comes til 
him that waits, 
an' I'm no gaun 
to deny it. I've 
waited since I 
was a laddie at 
the schule, an' 
— an* the thing 
has conic at last. 
We're gaun to 
see the wunner- 
fu' warld, Bess; 
we're gaun to 
gang richt roon T 
St an' erijey it in 
wur a u Id age. 
It'll gi'e us 
anither ten year 
o f life. It wull 
that ! Eh, 

"Oh, Peter!" 
whispered his 
wife, in a tone 
of awe. 

" Is't no a 
great notion ? " 
he exclaimed, 

exultantly. " It kin J o r taks yer hreith awa' 
at the first, nae (loot ; but that's jist because 
it's sic a great notion. An' we've time to dae 
it. We're no like some puir rich folk that 
daurna leave their business in case they'll no 
be jist as rk:h next year as they wis last year. 
You an' me's independent, Bess ! We'll gang 
roon' the warld wi 1 lichter herts nor ony 
millionaires ! Wur wark's done, an' we're 
gettin* wur holiday ! Eh, Bess ? " 

" Oh, Peter ! " she whispered once more. 

He looked at her. ^^S^t^^t" he 

asked, suddenly. 


" Oh, Peter, yeVe no in earnest ? f * 

"Ay> I'm in earnest. You an' me * 

" But, oh, Peter, I — I couldna gang ; I 
couldna gang roon' the warld 3 " 

Mr. Peebles looked his astonishment 
"Are ye feart, auld wife?" he inquired, with 
a laugh. "Of course, it's a big job, but 
ye 7 11 fin' everything rale comfortable an' 
commodious," He had already been study- 
ing pamphlets on World Travel. 

She shook her head. " I couldna gang, 1 * 
she repeated, tearfully, " I couldna leave 
wur ha me* I'm ower auld, Peter*" 

" Wha's have 
rin J noo ? " he 
cried, struggling 
against a feeling 
of dismay. "Ye 
wis never in 
better health* 
Ye ? re jist in 

splendit " 

"It wnd kill 
me/' she said, 
wiping her eyes. 
"Aw t ye'll 
shin get used to 
the notion," he 
said, after some 
h e s i t a t ion* 
"We'll think 
ower it, Bess, 
But — but I wud 
like if we could 
mak J asfairl shin 
— next month, 
maybe, I wudna 
gang my lane- 
some, ye ken, ! * 
he added, rising 
and patting her 

" Ye wudrui 

get ! * she cried, 

ind i gnan 1 1 y. 

"D'ye think I 

wud let an auld man like yerseP gang doon 

to the sea in a ship, an' maybe get wannert 

on some cannibal island ? " 

"Weel, I daursay 111 be gled if yell tak' 
care o T me, Bess. But — but well jist think 
ower it for a day or twa, An J if it's gaun to 
vex ye, we'll say nae mair aboot it. Eh ? " 

" I doot we wud be jist rideeclous amang 
a 1 the swell folk on the ships/' she remarked 

" We ken hoo to keep wurseVs to wurselV 
he replieUrigFrjaifftEfenaan pey wur wey. Ye 
netc^K'ife.^^^N^WG.^"* Bess," 

WAIT!*/ " 



"That's a stupid thing to say. Whit aboot 
gettin' sea seeck ? ? ' 

%% That's a snfa' risk on thae big steamers. 
Ye needna pretend ye're feart — you that 
yinst gaed to Cam'eltown on a bad winter 
day. But ye'H think ower it ? " 

*'Ay ; I'll think ower it," she returned, sadly. 

And she did think over it ; indeed, she 
could think of little else. The thing was so 
tremendous It haunted her by night ; it 
was with her ere she was fully awake, while 
she went about her household labours ; while 
she knitted in the afternoon, when her man 

11 1 kent ye wud," he said, with a gratified 
chuckle. " It'll be the time o ] yer life 1" he 
added, with enthusiasm. 

"Idoot— I mean Pm shair it wull," she 
replied, bravely, 

"Oh, 111 guarantee ye enjey yersel', Bess. 
I jist wish I could mak' up ma mind aboot 
the best rout, There's that mony folk 
anxious to tak J ye roon 5 the warld, An 1 I'm 
disappintit aboot Greenland. I wantit to get 
a keek at Greenland's icy mountains, ye ken. 
But the boats dinna seem to gang that road, 
Ower cauld, maybe. But never hetd. I'll 


was down at the docks; while she watched 
him in the evening poring over handbills 
and brightly-covered booklets, which he 
marked here and there with his pencil. She 
almost wished the money had never come to 
Peter, or, at least, that it had come twenty 
years earlier . . , And yet Peter was hale 
and heart y t and the great journey was one that 
many weakly beings took for their healths 
sake. Perhaps she was a selfish old woman 
Was her foolish fear to stand in the way of 
Peter realizing the dream of his life? 

And so it came to pass that on the fourth 
evening she made up her mind and expre*>ed 
it very simply. 

M Til gang, PeteT." 

Peter looked up from a tourist's guide. 

gang roon' the offices the morn an T get 
information. Air yell get yer claes ready. 
I'm think in* ye' 1 1 need white claes for the het 

"White claes? Ye dinna mean that, 
Peter," she exclaimed, in an agonized voice, 
" Whit wud I dae wi' white claes ? I wud lie 
a — a per fee* sicht— a per fee* scandal ! " 

" Na, na. Yell jist be fine. Ill ha'e to 
get white things masel f ! " 

" You, Peter ! Are ye gaun to play the 
buffoon at seeventy ? " 

"Ye get roastit alive if ye dinna weer 
white claes," said Mr. Peebles, easily. " A J 
the ither fplk'l.I be. weerin 1 them, so ye 
needna fash yerstfffl fvy&anna weer a black 

doimdMi'' Efe&l FqiiytcMfC H IG A N 


Mrs, Peebles collapsed, speechless, 
" Ye'll shin get used to the notion, 1 ' said 
her husband, reassuringly. 

But the " white claes )3 seemed to be the 
last straw to Bess. " I've aye been respect- 
able, onywey," she said to herself, bitterly. 

A week passed ere Mr, Peebles could 
decide upon the details of the journey- 
Then, one afternoon, he announced that, 
instead of going down to the docks, he would 
proceed to the tourist agency and engage 
passages. His wife heard him with averted 
face. She looked pale and worn, but he was 
too excited to observe it, 

u Peter," she whis[>ered t as he left the 
kitchen, eager as a schoolboy on the first 
hour of holidays. 

He did not hear the whisper* He took 
his hat from the peg in the little lobby and 
o[>ened the outer door. Then he remem- 
bered that the latch-key 
was hanging in the 
kitchen. He closed 
the door again and re- 
traced the few steps to 
the kitchen* He had 
left the kitchen door 
open about an inch. 
A sound made 
him halt Then 
he peeped in, 
his hand on the 
door. Then his 
hand fell to his 

His wife was 
on her knees, 
her face in her 
arms, leaning 
upon her man's 

"Oh, Lord," 
she was saying, 
brokenly, u his 
hert is set on 
the notion. 
Dinna let me 
spile it for him* 
Dinna let me 
be feart ony 
mair, oh, Lord. 
Dinna let " 

Peter Peebles turned away and left the 
house noiselessly. 

When he returned two hours later it was 
with a nervous and ashamed expression of 

" Weel, Peter," said his wife, cheerfully, 
her face shining from vigorous washing, M I 
suppose ye've did the deed. The tucketsll 
be a mile lang, Pm thinkinV 
Mr. Peebles smiled feebly. 
*' I couldna dae it," he stammered at last 
"1 doot yell never forgre me, Bess, but — 
but I couldna dae it, When it cam' to the 
bit I took fricht." 

" Whit's that ye're sayin', Peter ? " 
"Jist that I'm feart to tak 1 the great 
journey. I turned at the office door. It 
wis like gaun to the dentist, an* ringin 1 the 
bell, an' rinnin' awa\ I lost a 1 ma courage. 
I couldna face the furrin pairts. I wan tit to 
bide at harne," he faltered* 

"Oh, Peter!" 
she cried, chok- 
ingly. i£ Ye're no 
gaun to gie up the 
notion ?" 

"If ye say we're 
to gang, well gang, 1 
he replied, 
vainly endea- 
vouring to re- 
member the rest 
of the speech 
which he had 
so carefully re- 
hearsed. M But 
— but — I doot 
I canna face it, 
Bess. I'm ower 

auld. I'm : ' 

He sat down, 
and Bess put 
her arm about 

His studied 
words failed 
him, all except 
the peroration. 
Cl Wud ye like 
a month at 
Rothes ay, 
B e s s ? J y he 
blurted out 


by Google 

Original from 


Fnrm a Pht4v. by Hmtell <i Am 

HY is it that 
so many 
foreign musicians 
especially, wear long 

The question often 
puzzles me, and the 
more I think about 
it the less able am I 
to arrive at a satis- 
factory solution of 
the mystery. I should 
like it to be under- 
stood, before proceed- 
ing with my remarks, 
that I do not wish 
to denounce the 
custom per si ; it is 
purely a matter of 
taste, and I will even 
confess that I have 
sometimes had feel- 
ings of regret that Nature has for many 
years past precluded the possibility of my 
ever being in a position personally to gauge 
the amount of additional success obtainable 
by luxuriant locks. 

It is the reason for the prevalent custom 
that I have tried so long to get at. Is it 
because musicians are, as a rule, impecunious 
in their youth, and grudge the cost of a 
periodical visit to the hairdresser, and that 
the habit, once acquired, remains with them 
in later life ? Or is it that the high artistic 
sense fills those who possess it with an 
abhorrence of barbers and barbers' shops — - 
even when the latter are run on strict LCC 
lines ? 

Or are they afraid that, like Samson, if 
once shorn of their locks, they may fall into 
the hands of the musical Philistines? 

Or, again, is it a sort of trade mark of 
their art, imitated from their masters, who 
imitated it from their masters, and so on back- 
wards? If this be the case 1 who was the first 

Vol, xasiiL— 12. 


musician to set the 
fashion, why did he 
do so, and when did 
he do so? gives us 
more food for thought 
and further cause for 

We know that in 
earlier ages nearly all 
mankind wore long 
hair, and it may be 
presumed that the 
musical people of the 
time did the same- 
one can hardly, for 
instance, imagine a 
bald - headed King 
David, or Blondel, the 
minstrel, without long, 
fair curls descending 
to his shoulders. 

But the world has 
since gone through 
a long period of wigs of all sorts and 
siies, and from the portraits extant of the 
time it would seem that musicians gener- 
ally were content to abide by the prevail- 
ing custom. The moment the wig period 
ended, however, long hair seems to have 
claimed musicians for its own again, although 
ordinary mortals were content to cut their 

There are undoubtedly some types of head 
and feature that seem naturally to require an 
abundance of hair to put the finishing touch 
to them, and the knowledge of this fact 
may be intuitive in their owners. Look at 
Beethoven's massive head, to quote but one 
striking instance. 

Although greatness, or even ordinary talent 
or merit, can scarcely be said to exist in an 
artiste in proportion to the length of his hair, 
yet there is no doubt that to the executive 
musician who is in personal contact with the 
public (provided, of catfft^ that he has the 
requisitalitt , i^fc:-tB , ilit()F) MKroiiWince of hair 



is an important, I may say almost a neces- 
sary, factor for his success upon the concert 
platform, or at all events for his immediate 

All the great executive artistes I can call to 
mind who have possessed the power to attract, 
unaided, large audi- 
ences all the world 
over, and to fasci- 
nate and rouse them 
to great enthusiasm, 
have been the proud 
possessors of luxuri- 
ant heads of hair. 

I almost doubt it, and in proof of this I 
could name other artistes, equally gifted, who, 
eminently successful though they may have 
been in many ways, have quite failed to 
exercise this extraordinary and indefinable 
magnetism over the public through having 

elected, from choice 
or necessity, to appear 
like ordinary every- 
day mortals so far as 
their hair was con- 

Is this because the 
public look for 

Pagamni, Liszt, and 
Rubinstein, not to 
mention others of 
more recent date 
whose names will 
easily recur to my 
readers, are good ex- 
amples. That these 
men would have 
been equally great 
without this addi- 
tional attraction 

{shall I say "capillary attraction "?) can hardly 
be denied, but would they have had the same 
charm and fascination for their audiences ? 


The portraits of eminent composers on this page show 

their tendency to short hair rather than long. The 

exceptional cases of Schumann and Chopin are dealt 

with in this article. 

ximutliing out of the 
common or abnormal 
in the personality of 
the artistes they go 
to hear? Or is it (I 
hope my readers of 
the fair sex will not 
feel hurt) because 
the feminine portion 
of an audience, 
which without doubt 
contributes to the 
largest extent towards an artiste's success 
and popularity, is generally impressed with 



of a style of 



coiffure which they seldom see indulged in 
by their own male acquaintances ? 

Under any circumstances there is un- 
doubtedly some subtle connection between 
music and long hair, at all events so far as 
the executive side of the art is concerned ; for 
if we examine the question closely throughout 
the generations which have passed since the 
wig period, during which period it was, of 
course, impossible to trace any hirsute 
eccentricities on the part either of players or 
composers, we find an exceedingly interesting 
and curious state of things existing among 
musicians as regards the fashion in hair. 

The first point which attracts one's notice 
is that all, or nearly all, of the men who won 
feme chiefly as composers appear to have 
been short-haired men, while those who were 
equally or entirely famous as executants have 
favoured long hair. 

A glance at contemporary portraits of the 
great masters of musical composition will 
show that this is no mere haphazard assertion 
based upon the personal appearance of only 
two or three composers. I have before me as 
I write portraits of such master-composers 
as Weber, Schubert, Chopin, Schumann, 
Wagner, Verdi, and Tschaikowski, and, with 
perhaps the exception of Chopin and 
Schumann, all of these were short-haired 

Chopin, it is true, appears in his prime to 
have been blessed with locks of more than 
ordinary length, but it may be that he was 
only following the fashion prevailing at that 
time; while even if this was not the case, 
was he not almost as great an executant as 
he was a composer ? If he rarely performed 
in public it was certainly not because he 
lacked the power to attract large and appre- 
ciative audiences, for Mendelssohn himself 
pronounced him to be " a truly perfect vir- 
tuoso " as well as a thorough musician, with 
a faculty for improvisation such as, perhaps, 
no other pianist ever possessed. 

As regards Schumann, the only other long- 
haired composer of note, and, therefore, a 
seeming exception to the rule, it is, I think, 
merely sufficient for me to remind my readers 
that Schumann was an exceptional individual 
in many ways. That he allowed his hair to 
grow long vas in all probability due more 
to carelessness and general eccentricity 
than to anything else. Absent-mindedness, 
spiritualistic tendencies, and eventually mad- 
ness claimed this brilliant composer for their 
°*n. I must, therefore, ask my readers not 
to rely too strongly upon Schumann as a 
lever wherewith to upset the theory that 

short-haired composers are the rule and not 
the exception. 

I could, of course, extend ' my list still 
further. In my imagination I see before me 
the keen, intellectual face of Bellini, with 
the forehead high and broad as befits the 
composer of such masterpieces as "La 
Sonnambula " and " Norma." The hair is 
short and curly. " Short and curly " de- 
scribes also the hair of Rossini, whose 
"Guillaume Tell," " Semiramide," and "II 
Barbiere di Seviglia" will live as long as 
music has power to sway the hearts of men. 

With the features of Gounod probably 
most of my readers are acquainted. If so, 
they cannot have failed to note that in him 
also we find a type of the short-haired 
composer. Indeed, in the later years of his 
life, Gounod was perfectly bald, save for the 
fringe of white hair which, together with his 
snowy beard and moustache, added to the 
beauty of a countenance which in other 
respects also was unusually handsome. 

It is, from the standpoint of this article, 
somewhat unfortunate that the "short- 
haired " test cannot be applied to all those 
who are numbered among the greatest com- 
posers the world has ever known. Unfortu- 
nately, I cannot call upon Bach, Handel, 
Mozart, or Haydn to substantiate my 
theory, for they all lived during a period of 
wigs, which ranged from the majestic full- 
bottomed variety, as worn by Handel and 
Bach, to the somewhat "skimpy" bob-tail 
which was in vogue at the time of Mozart, 
Haydn, and also of Gliick. Under the 
circumstances it is impossible to speculate as 
to the coiffures which these men would have 
favoured had they lived at a period when 
wigs were unknown or unfashionable. We 
can, however, surmise with some degree of 
correctness in the case of Handel, for we 
know that in his later years he was perfectly 
bald, so that presumably he could not have 
worn long hair even had he wished. 

Again, if we turn to eminent composers in 
the present day, I think we shall find that 
most of these also, though " big-wigs " in 
their profession, are but very ordinary in- 
dividuals if judged by the standard of their 
hair. Names will no doubt readily occur to 
all who are conversant with the personalities 
of the modern musical composers. Indeed, 
it would be no easy matter to name offhand 
a living composer of note whose hair could, 
except by the exercise of vivid imagination, 
be described as long. In some cases the 
hair is curly, in others thick and stubbly, 
and in a few causes it k wavy, but in none 

9 2 


can it be said to be long, especially if judged 
by the standard set by the locks of contem- 
porary pianists, violinists, and instrumen- 
talists generally. Before, however, I proceed 
to discuss the case of executant 
musicians pure and simple, I 
would like to direct the attention 
of my readers for a few moments 
to that interesting group of 
musicians who have not only 
been eminent composers, but 
active and prominent exponents 
of their art as wellj who have, in 
fact, in their own day, at any rate, 
been just as famous as executants 
as they were as composers. 

It is interesting to note that in 
this division we can place without 
hesitation some of the greatest 
names in the history of music. 

*VtHH a Photo. b]f lit'uckttvtAM. 

with which I am familiar depict him as the 
possessor of locks so luxuriant that they may 
well be described as shaggy. 

Mendelssohn, according to his portraits, 
appears to have been endowed 
w T ith hair that — even if we can- 
not describe it as £ * shaggy," or 
even as " thick " — was decidedly 

As for Liszt, his patriarchal 
mane once seen must have been 
a thing to remember for all time; 
while in the case of Rubinstein, 
his hair alone would have made 
him a marked man in any assem- 
bly of ordinary mortals. 

I trust I have now made clear 
the point which I indicated as 
to 1 1 le ' ' c om pose r - ex ecu t an ts j ' 
possessing long hair to such a 

Such names, for 
example, as 
Beethoven, Rubinstein, Liszt, and 
Mendelssohn are but a few of 
the many that suggest themselves 
to me as I write. 

If I base my remarks upon 
the "fashion in hair" adopted 
by these men, and by the others 
of their class whom I have in 
mind, I am irresistibly impelled 
to the conclusion that practically 
all great composers who have 
been at the same time equally 
great executants apparently 
adopted the fashion of wearing 
their hair long. 

Let us examine the individual 
cases I have mentioned, and we 
shall see whether my argument 
is supported by the facts or not, 

All the portraits of Beethoven 





TKe above portraits show 
that composers who are alw 
great performers display 

marked degree that 
they are in quite 
a different class, for the purposes 
of this article, to the composen 
with their short hair, so that long 
hair would appear lo be the in- 
evitable accompaniment of great 
executive skill. 

Such being the case, and 
assuming the soundness of my 
previous argument, we should 
expect to find, in the only re- 
maining class — that of executants 
pure and simple — the same, or 
an even greater, development of 
hair which apparently attends the 
com poser -executant as a class. 
And what do we actually find? 
When I contemplate the portraits 
of the most eminent of living 
p';r- -v \ r I hey pianists or viv 

tendency to Ioti^I MHtERSI "I 1 V 1 ©^^ ftl l#P^. f-^eads of hair of 



such appalling 
luxuriance that I 
can only stand 
aghast and, like the 
small boy on the 
occasion of his first 


I A:,.t.M V\ SKI. 

frYom (i Photo, iift The Ijnutua- 

pftTrfNmttrit! Vomfxiutf. 

visit to a conjuring en- 
tertainment, wond er 
mutely "how on earth 
they do it'*! The 
aureole-like effect of 
[he hair which adorns 
ihe heads of some of 
mir great pianists is 
striking to an extra- 
ordinary degree. 

Virtuosi of the 
violin exercisCj I admit, greater restraint upon 
the eNi>ansive tendencies of their hair, but 1 
cannot think of one, in spite of this, who, 
even after his periodical visit to the barber — 
for I presume that even a musician occasion- 
ally submits himself to be tonsorially tortured 
—could honestly be described as even 

Ole Bull and Ernst were two violinists 
who particularly delighted in the length of 
their hair, while Paganini is an exceptionally 
good example of the same thing, for he 
<:oupled luxuriant locks with extraordinary 
artistic ability in a manner which drew huge 
audiences and made him a target for the 
shafts of the caricaturists of his day* 


ft™ a PhtAo by KuurR «* fan 


Frvm a Photo fc tf EUiolt .* *Vy. 

Run through for a moment the names of 
all the living executants you can think o£ It 
will puzzle you to discover a single one who 
is short haired. Indeed, 1 very much doubt 
whether anyone who was not intimately 
familiar, at any rate by hearsay, with practi- 
cally every living executant of the day could 
think off-hand of a solitary exception to the 

I must confess that the more deeply I 
probe into this question of " long hair and 
music ** the more mysterious and puzzling do 
I find it. I have already* at the beginning 

of this article, hinted 
at various solutions 
of this musical mar- 
vel, but the answers 
I have up to now 
suggested are, to my 
mind, not by any 

From a PiuJv. bv The London 


From a Photo, hffC. Gtrtehet, PaTi*. 

Musicians such as those whose portrait appear on this 

page, better known a* performers ihan as composers, are 

almoal invariably long' haired. 

Fruw a Phoiu, by Btiumwr. 

means exhausted. 
Can it be that all the 
wou Id - be Paganinis 
and Rubinsteins 
adopt the fashion of 
long hair on the 
principle that it is 
good to be equipped 
from the outset 
with all the apparently necessary physical 
attributes of an artiste on the chance of what 
success Fate may have in store for them at 
some future time ? Or is it possible that an 
artiste finds in his spreading locks a ready 
means of displaying certain little mannerisms 
which he could not otherwise "work off" 
effectively upon his admiring audiences? 

Of course, all this is mere conjecture on 
my part, but LhatnttJ^KPte some subtle con- 
nection ftVf^tlPdf rWC r H^3N he executive 



side of music is, I think, made plain by what 
I have already written, though from what 
that mysterious connection comes, and from 
what period of the world's history it dates, it 
is difficult exactly to state. That the custom 
is of hoary antiquity seems to be certain, for 
we have incontrovertible evidence from the 
classics that, even in those early days, long hair 
was the distinguishing feature of the bards, 
who, of course, stood for our pianists and vio- 
linists. Furthermore, was not Apollo himself, 
the very God of Music, almost invariably 
dignified by the appellation, " long-haired " ? 

And what of the bards of a later date than 
that of which Homer and Virgil sang ? Can 
we conceive a close cropped Druidical bard, 
or, worse still, a bald-headed one? We 
might just as well imagine Robinson Crusoe 
without his umbrella, or Chamberlain without 
his eyeglass ! " 

One final reason for the custom I will put 
forward. It is a serious one this time, 
and is, I believe, the true solution of the 

Religion and music have always been 
closely connected, in so far as the priests 
themselves in all countries were in every case 
the first to introduce music and to use it for 
religious purposes. Now, as long as any - 
record exists, old-time priests have been long- 
haired men. To allow the hair to grow has 
been an accompaniment to religious vows 
from the world's earliest history. In the 
Bible itself many cases are mentioned of men 
who swore not to cut their hair until some 
religious vow had been accomplished. That 
is to say, they made their vow for God's sake 
and it was a sacred thing. Thus, in the case 
of Samson, when he lost his hair he lost his 
sacredness, and so his power. 

Thus priests of all nations used to wear long 
hair because they considered themselves, so to 
speak, dedicated to God, and therefore 
sacred. It was these priest-musicians who 
set the fashion for our long-haired musicians 
of the present day, for they taught their pupils 
and their imitators that music itself was a 

sacred thing, and that those who were expo- 
nents of it were, so to speak, high priests of 
music, arid, therefore, under a sacred vow. 

Nor when we look even more closely into 
the matter is music the only art whose " high 
priests," so to speak, wear long hair. There 
have been many cases of great artistes, great 
writers, and so on, who have gone about with 
their locks unshorn— in fact, long hair may 
almost be said to be the hall-mark of virtuosi 
generally, no matter what direction their 
talent takes. 

At any rate, account for it as we will, we 
cannot get away from the fact that those 
executant musicians who have extraordinary 
heads of hair draw by far the largest 
audiences. Many, of course, will meet me 
with the objection that it is the magic spell 
of the music and the exceptional skill of the 
artiste which alone are responsible for these 
large attendances. But I opine that perfect 
mastery of an instrument and exceptional 
skill in playing are of themselves not suffi- 
cient to draw a huge audience. Something 
else is needed, and careful analysis and 
studious comparison of various artistes of 
practically equal calibre lead me to believe 
that long hair is what is really required. 
• It is, in fact, a case of drawing, as the poet 
sings, " by a hair," only from my point of 
view, the poet's single, hair must be raised 
to the " //th " power, till it assumes the 
proportions of a mane. In no other way 
can I satisfactorily account for the seemingly 
freakish penchant of so large a proportion of 
music-lovers and concert-goers for particular 

Whatever the reason for the custom, I 
have no doubt that musicians will continue, 
to the disadvantage of the hairdresser and 
the delight of the street urchin, to wear long 
hair for many generations to come — perhaps 
until wigs once more become the fashion ; and 
I will only add — what I hinted at in an earlier 
stage of my remarks — that, had Nature only 
been kinder to me, I might at this moment 
be numbered among long-haired musicians. 

Original from 

HOLOGRAPHY/* remarked 
Garry, apropos of nothing in 
particular, at the last meeting 
of the Strand Club, '* has 
now been raised to the level 
of the fine arts ; consc- 
takes a dilettante — a man of a 

quently it 
poetical and artistic tem- 
perament — properly to 
appreciate it." 

The Club looked sym 
pathetic, and Garry con- 
tinued his narrative, 

"Some of you may 
know, "he said, "that 1 
am not wholly unversed 
in the secrets of photo- 
graphy ; but few are aware 
that, with me, it was not 
always a hobby — a mere 
pastime. There was a 
time when the fascinations 
of this mystic and elusive 
art had twined themselves 
inextricably around my 
very ego, until it became 
an all -pervading passion 
—the be-all and end-all 
of my existence, That, 
however, was several years 
"* You may remember 

picture. It rep resented a species of primeval 
man (rarely met with nowadays) — a man 
who worked with his hands under the blue 
vault of heaven, with the fresh breezes 
of the country around him — a man who 
worked and was not ashamed of his labour. 
Beside him stood the trusted companion of 

iou may rememner m one ^ftfrfa I f rofe J ' 

c« the recent photographic exhibi- - wiwjp* ti 

tiuns an exceedingly beautiful mccormick's sketch iU^iIl^F*^ 

phic STOttY. 


9 6 


his toil — his faithful mule. 
Need I say, gentlemen, that I 
was the artist ? 

M To the original I presented 
a copy of the picture, He re- 
ceived it in becoming silence, 
and a smile of intense gratifi- 
cation spread itself over his 
b u c ol i c eou n t en a nee. P re sent 1 y 
I observed him showing it to a 
com pan ion — a fe 1 1 o w la bour er , 
An intense curiosity to over- 
hear their remarks took pos- 
session of me, and I stealthily 
approached them. Is it pos- 
sible, thought I, that the divine 
spark of intelligence within 
them will be vivified by this 
triumph of artistic skill ? If so, 
what effect wifl it have upon 
them? What form will their 
emotion take ? Will they weep, 
or go into esthetic raptures, 
or — or perhaps wash them- 
selves ? 

H This, gentlemen, was their conversation as 
I overheard it : — 

11 ■ What d'ye think on it, mate ? ' 

u 'Aye, aye, well; surely now, it do be loike 
you, hain't it? But, I say, Erbert, 'oo's the 
bloke a-holding you by the bridle ? 7ii 

To McCormick was entrusted the task of 
providing a fitting delineation of the scene. 
How he availed himself of the opportunity 
may be seen by the sketch on the previous page, 

Boyle : Have you heard this ? A lady of 
ample and generous proportions had occasion 
to engage a new kitchenmaid. Shortly after 



her arrival Bridget was told (through the 
medium of a speaking tube) to tell her mis- 
tress that she was wanted upstairs, " Hi, 
mum !" she gasped, ** you're wanted oopstairs 
through the poipt ! " 

David Wilson's delineation of the portly 
dame and the ambiguous slavey is repro- 
duced herewith. 

Worming : I was watching some recruits 
being drilled the other day + The men were 
very raw, and the sergeant's patience was 
being taxed to the uttermost 

11 Attention 1 " he roared. " Throw your 

shoulders back ! 
Farther — farther 
— as far as you 
can go." 

One of the re- 
cruits thus ad- 
man ished — a 
fellow somewhat 
older than the 
rest — began to 
bend himself back 
at an extraordinary 
angle. The ser- 
geant beheld him 
and glowed with 
pride. l< That's 
right, me lad/ 1 he 
purred ; " put 
some beef into it* 

lc ffifflBHTYOF michi^R*"* however ' 



slowly continued Presently the head dis- 
appeared altogether from view. The sergeant 
grew manifestly uneasy. Then the head ap- 
peared again, this time between its owner's 
legs, and a choking voice proceeded to 
address the sergeant: " J Ow will this do, 
guv 'nor ? ff The sergeant nearly had a fit, 
and had t~> be carried off the field. The 
man was an ex- professional acrobat. 

Frank Reynolds volunteered to illustrate 
Wornung's narrative, and the characteristic 
design on the preceding page shows the 
result of his labours. 

At this juncture Shirley advanced to the 
drawing-board and laboriously produced 
the appended rough diagram. 

" 1 must apologize/* said he, " for the 
crudeness of my draughtsmanship, but I 
am, as you are doubtless aware, no artist. 
However, I think this little sketch may 
serve to explain a not unamusiiig incident 
of which 1 was the chance spectator the 
other day, A street gamin had approached 
aji extremely attenuated and ill-propor- 
tioned individual with the object, I pre- . 
srnne, of asking the time. He had barely 
opened his 
mouth to speak 
frhen he be- | 
came aware of 
the unusual j 
proportions of 
his victim. For 
some moments 

Booth told a story of the tramp who had 
applied at a wayside cottage for a little tenv 
porary assistance, tl My good man/ 1 queried 

the housewife 
in amazement, 
as she became 


he stood speechless — admiration and astonish- 
ment struggling for mastery over his features ; 
aud then, cautiously retreating from this 
terrifying apparition, he gurgled softly : * Lor', 
sir I Did they make you ail in one piece t ' " 

VgL ixiiii.— t3L 


aware of her guest's indescribable filth and 
raggedness — "my good man, did you ever 
take a bath ? w 

" No, mum ; no, mum," replied the vag- 
rant, as he hastily crammed another chunk 
of bread into his capacious maw ; ** I never 
took anything bigger than a silver spoon." 

When the artist had left the easel, after 
illustrating his narrative, Muttle was called 
upon by the Chairman for a contribution. 

Muttle ; Here is a story which may be 
new to you. An elderly gentleman, of a 
venerable and benign appearance, was walk- 
ing one day in the neighbourhood of the 
Mile End Road, when he was accosted by 
an excited individual of the female gender. 

41 Oh, sir, come quick ! " she cried, breath- 
lessly. "There are three rough men jump- 
ing on an organ-grinder round the corner/' 

11 Is he a big organ-grinder ? " queried 
the gentleman, gravely. 

"No, no; a small man — a very small 
man. Come quickly, or it will be too late" 
"Then in that event," was the suave reply, 
"I don't see why I should interfere. The 
others won't need any assistance;" 

E. J* Clarke was selected by the Chairman 





for a pictorial rendering of the foregoing 
story, and the rapid sketch which that clever 
artist forthwith produced upon the blackboard 
may be seen above. 

Lorrison : I wonder if Irish stories will ever 
lose their popularity? Here is the latest 
absurdity to be foisted upon that inuch- 
maligned and long suffering country. Scene : 
A railway station. Dramatis ptrsontr : Two 
jovial sons of Erin, 

u Bedad," remarks one, " an' Oi\e chated 
the ould railway company foinely now." 

11 Arrah, now/ 1 replies his companion, "an' 
how did ye do that same ? " 

"Why, OiVe taken a return ticket, an' 
Qi've no intention of com in' back at all, 
at all ! " 

Harry Furniss then proceeded with much 
celerity to execute the accompanying sketch. 

Boyd's punning propensities are at once 
the terror and admiration of Ins friends. 

When, therefore, it was announced that he 
was prepared to provide the company with 
an entirely new and original specimen of 
his peculiar art there was some commo- 
tion, during which several members look 
occasion to slip unobserved from the 

There was an electrical thrill in the air 
as the accomplished artist was gravely 
escorted to the drawing-board. Members 
trod upon each other's toes and visibly 
palpitated with excitement, and when the 
masterpiece was with all due pomp un- 
veiled by the Chairman, even the coldly- 
reserved, if not to say lugubrious, waiters 


could "scarce forbear to cheer." As maybe 
seen 3 the picture represents a clever play 
upon the vowels —a, e, i, o, u, w t and y. 

And so ended the latest meeting of the 
Strand Club. 


'£ * «&£ ■ Q , you QflSU^^K 3 ™ 


*ah* wys ' 


By Walter Kruse, 

MR. DAVID WILSON occupies a 
unique position. Not only has he 
had what may be termed a record for acci- 
dents, but also for coincidences, the remark- 
able thing being that they always happened 
on the same day of the year. 

He was born on the Banwen Mountains, 
near Glyneath, in Wales, in 1846, and pur- 
sues the occupation of a coal- miner On 
August 26th, 1857, at the age of ten, he 
fractured the forefinger 
of his right hand. 
When twelve years old, 
on i\ugust 26th, he fell 
from horseback and 
broke his left leg below 
the knee. On August 
26th of the next year he 
broke both bones of his 
left forearm by stum- 
blings his arm striking 
the edge of a brick. On 
August 26th of the fol- 
lowing year, when he 
was fourteen, he again 
broke his left leg above 
the ankle, by his foot 
being caught under an 
iron rod, his body pitch- 
ing for wards . Next year, 
on ,-ttigust 26th, he 
varied the fractures by 
breaking both legs, the 
right one being injured 
so badly that it had to 
be amputated. This 
accident was caused by 
a horse running away 
underground when 
hitched to a tram of 
coal, which caught him 
in a narrow passage and crushed both legs 

He had had, therefore, five fractures in six 
years, and the last four accidents wjre in 
four consecutive years. All of these had 
occurred on August 26th, After this he 
thought there must really be some connec- 
tion between the date and the accidents, and 
resolved to leave off working on August ;?6th, 
and accordingly abstained from work on that 
<% for twenty-eight years, though working 
<rt other times of the year. But in the year 
1890 he forgot the date and went to work as 
usual. The result was that he broke his 


OTvm a Photo, ly W. Krtan, Truro, 

remaining (left) leg for the fourth time. This 
was caused by a portion of the roof of the 
tunnel failing in while he was at work in 
Risca Collieries. 

After considerable trouble I succeeded in 
tracing the man, when I carefully questioned 
him about his accidents and previous history, 
I found that he had lost the tip of his right 
forefinger, and he showed me the scars on his 
left leg below the knee, resulting from the last 
fracture, which was very 
severe, both the tibia 
and fibula being broken. 
Since his last accident 
he has carefully avoided 
working on August 26th. 
He is still employed at 
the colliery. 

The man is stoutly 
built, and must have had 
remarkable vitality to 
go through so many 
accidents and still retain 
good health. He is 
temperate in habits, and 
has been an abstainer for 
twenty-five years. He is 
intelligent, and able to 
give a clear account of 
himself and his family. 
The number of acci- 
dents the man has had 
is wonderful, but by far 
the most remarkable fact 
in connection with his 
history is their all hap- 
pening on a certain day 
in the year If this had 
only occurred twice it 
might be simply a 
coincidence, but after 
occurring three times this idea is dispelled, 
and for an accident to occur six times on the 
same day and be a mere coincidence becomes 
almost a mathematical impossibility, It is 
only explainable o\\ the supposition that some 
natural law is at work, and (jhat this law is in 
some way connected with the earth's revo- 
lution around the sun, because the accidents 
always happened precisely 'when the earth 
reaches the same position in its orbit around 
the sun. It is very evident we have not 
arrived at the summit of our knowledge, and 
that there are cauaea.-and influences at work 
which aro^^^^^observc-r. 




The Story of a Landscape 
During Twelve Months- 


By John J. Ward. 

aiure" " Pm^s inte M 
^holographs by the Autks 

(The Depicted is Finham Bridge, near Stoneleigh, Warwickshire.) 

Author of "Minute AAtn^h oj Nature" "Peeps inte Naturis Ways™ £ti. Illustrated frsm 

Photographs by the Autk&n 

JANUARY. A h-.-ivy snmvsiorin has cohered i lie roads and 
fields with a mantle of white, which tlie rapid thaw is dissolving 
almost immediately, while ibe brawn remnant* of last year;* 
vegetation an Main AM%ertiitjg themselves on the river's banks. 
The branches of ihe trees look hjack ;irjd grim against the sky* 
and show no sign?; of returning life. The one cheering "° te of 
the scene h the music of the rob fa, which sinjjs sweetly from 
the ivy cluster at ibe side of the bridge. 

FEBRUARY, — The scene hllfl ^hAnged ; irregular patent* of 
fresh green tiow b^^in to decorate the water's edge^ but fluids 

branches of the alder in the foreground. Sunlight {the great 
engine which provide.* the motive power of all life) has com- 
menced to play its part in the scent.'. jliuI th<- |i(tk- hjwrfc'rn 
bush that tin* been sheltered by the ivy clump arid bridsjr 
throughout the winter months has been tempted to put fenjj 
some of its leaves, which shadow upon the bridge atld remind 
us (hat the sun is really shining, 

APRIL.- The oak and elm trees down the road begin tosha* 
their young leaves a nd blot out some of ibe white .sky T T Jl! 

lIh- ui'1-iu. j;n-^jn innriiMni; its show of delicate gieen. Tk 

.i.inl tin's remain very much the same as I hey appeared before 

the snowstorm, ami a bhsak. cold wind blows that ripples the 

v,;\Ut and makc*i the pedoiriait hurry ul»ii^, 

MARCH. — The water -current is nql so swollen, and a delicate 

green tint enlivens the hrsmrhe* of the large willow tree at pale mAuve''-bM£UJiJ;3ir the Udics' smo 
the back of the bridge* (browing into relief ihe coloured i i l iwdrc^drd^ndeiHonafri bnaEhfcy pip 

colli winds, i hough, retrain ihi.- developing buds fiuin rc>pJ™' 
jug trio freely to the occasii mal bright glimpses of sunshine. 
The lark t however, cannot resist lhem b and with every on 6 " 
soars ah jft from the nejg hi curing mesidow and makes itssw* 1 
m n sic beard»-t The vellow sLits of the leaser celandine and the 
pale mAuin-dUS^UtfiPutaies smork t together W l|w 

e rivers banks. 



MAY.— The ash tree (which is much bier in. lea ting than ihe 
oak lower down the road) a on ihe extreme left, has Sir gun 
to put on its su mirier finery, and the alder has awakened 
tn the Fact i hat it i> time to be up and doing, The flowers of 
the ladies' smock by The water's edge are continually visited by 
the handsome orange-tip butler fly, which sips their nectar and 
then ungratefully deposits its eggs beneath them— which, later 
on. mean> that the caterpillars will feed upon their seed- 1 km!*. 
The predominating music is ihe bleating of young lambs. 

AUGUST.— The keek's flowers are over, and their stalks have 
turned brown while ihe seeds ripen. Rank nettles jostle with 
the water figwort, whose meat -coloured flowers the wasp is 
never tired of visiting. Minnows throw the surface of the 
water into tiny ripples. Tortoisesbel! butterflies flitter by the 
roadside, while the humming of the bees is bo&CMK as they 
move amongst the rich blooms of the sweetly-scented meadow- 
sweet. Hut the atmosphere seems heavy and langn id, and the 
rumbling of thunder foretells an approaching storm. 

JUKE. — The background of f&y so conspicuous in January 
and February is now almost obliterated by the rapidly , 
dmloping leaves. In the foreeround a fine plant of one or the 
*ikl keck* ha* developed and added twain y to the picrure* 
The strung smell of the iimy-blossom pervades the: atmosphere, 
-ind 4 bu*y hum from a d aj I v-inr reading host of inlets pro- 
duces a new kind of music, The nightingale {too impatient 
tofcait until nigh I fall) indulges in some note* thai startle us by 
their variety and sweetness. 

SEPTEMBER.— Much foliage has now more than completed 
its development, and many leaves are already showing their 
autumnal colours. Above the stream fluffy thistledown blows, 
and aWut its banks ihe mole has been busy throwing up many 
he^ps of fine mould. The flower*, by the waters ed^e have 
almost disappeared, strong clusters of nettles with tiny and 
unbenulifiil green flowers pred^minaHN ;mJ the few wasps that 
search amongst them for the late btooms of the water tig won 
seem sluggish r for the morning air is chilly for them. 

JVl.Y.-^Tht scene ha* now reached the height of its glory. 
The ash on tfceWicft at id the alder in the foreground are now 
wjjiia full Iraf 7"the keck planT has thrown up its umlsels of 
*au>4vwers high aoove the willow-herbs and ^ras^es. and its 
^Op* look handsome against the shadow in the stream. The 
■**"* of the birds is comparatively quiet, but the humming 
of insects, is greater than evirr. 

OCTOBER.— Red haws and hips now brighten the hedge- 
rows where once the blooms of ihe may and wild rose were 
found, leaves have become browned and shrivelled, and here 
and there on? flutters to the ground, About the river ban]; 
hazy mist* that lid >i hFtnly -vh-i, ilk -uu apfie.irs, leaving the 
grasses on the banks and the spiders' snares amongst them 



NOVEMBER. — In the photograph ih+* laiirfsc:L|Je haji now 
almost reproduced the May picture, hut in reality it presents 
a vury different appcannte. In May n fresh, bright green 
enlivened treew :ith! grafts, and everything wn& full or irm-ii: 
and the joyousness of life ; noiv that cup of life is draining out 
its last drugs, while a niuuriiflil quietness reigns around r broken 
only tM;C3,.v|otjally by the strong wind that shakes the branches 
and showers down the brown lenves to thicken the leafy carpet 
that covers ihe ground. Heavy riins liavt swollen the stream, 
and near the water' s edge dep>si^s of clean sand mark the line 
to which the river reached the previous day, Strangely^coloured 

und weird -looking tu:ul-slii:jU luALnl l!i^ rivi.TH h.iiiks whrrtr 
once the u eland i tie and dandelion showed their golden yi-llow ; 
but with all the changes thai sweet musician, the robin, remains- 

DECEMBER.— Once again the tare branches ^t»ild out 
aa-iiLi^t the -,ky* The ojiTygjeeri leaves now visible aire thuse 
of the ivy clump,, which during the' leafy months seemed la 
sink into insignificance. - Now, however they have* reasserted 
ibemselveh; itutted t the richness gf their green ni;ike? the Wy 
clump the bright and attractive centre of a landscape otherwise 
dull, for everything around looks Cold and 'dead. Kvcn tl« 
green cjI the gr^iss U;i:-. 1k.m .jiiie so confuted with hro«n stalks 
and fallen leaves that it has almost disappeared. The December 
sunlight has for a few moments ami led and cast weak shadows 
of the branches upon the liridge, .which now are but rarely seen. 
The musical robin is absent, but two young male birds are 
vying with each other in praiseworthy emulation, though they 
yet have much to learn. 


MR. LESLIE POGSON, of Anwick, 
' ■ Sleaford, who is represented in the 
following photographs as an executant on the 
piano under various strange and trying con- 
ditions, is certainly well justified in calling 
his performance by the title of u Music under 
Difficulties." When exhibiting his abilities 
for the entertainment of his friends Mr. 
Pogson begins, as the first six photographs 
make sufficiently clear, by performing a 
difficult piece of music in attitudes .with 
which most pianists are quite unfamiliar, 
going even so far,^n one instance, as to 
dispense with the keyboard altogether and, 
removing the piano front, to play direct upon 
the hammers* *An assistant then enters, and 

pretending that he wishes to write a letter, 
and that he is greatly annoyed by the musical 
solos, he shouts to the performer to cease 
playing. This having no effect, he throws 
two pieces of stick at the player, who picks 
them up and goes on playing with them 
instead of with his fingers, even when a 
table-cloth is spread over the keys, A quilt 
used in the same way fails to diminish the 
variety of his attitudes, and even when his 
hands are /handcuffed and he is placed 
with his back to the instrument the flood 
of music still flows forth as volubly as 

Mr Pogson states, among other interesting 
facts, that his most difficult feat is that in 



r* WITH TIIK r I- F.T, 





which he is enveloped in a sheet, as shown in unobserved through the crush of his late 

the last illustration. His next most difficult audience when lie overheard the sothewhat 

l*rformance is playing with the feet T as loudly-expressed opinion that "The whole 

shown in the second illustration. " My thing was a fake, my dear. The man never 





feet," says Mr. Pog&on, "seem to want to go played a note in his life; the piano is an 

anywhere but where / want them to, and automatic one ! n The photographer did not 

altogether behave in a most exasperating succeed in portraying Mr, Pogson at that 

manner/' One night Mr, Pogson was passing stage of the proceedings/ 


by mck „ »-.-«-- ^ivEfeTtrer^wrAN 10 - tH 



Illustrated by Peculiar Propositions bv Louis Nikola, 

COR the purpose of demonstration, all 
' that is required is a square of black- 
ened card, divided as in the diagram here- 
with, in duplicate. Having 
accurately cut the square, 
which may be of any size 
from three to twelve inches, 
mark the diagonals A D and 
C B, Find the middle of 
the two adjoining sides A B 
and B D, and draw the line 
E F. Mark a point midway 
between the corner A and 
the centre of the square, and 
draw the line E G* Mark a 
similar point midway be- 
tween the centre of the 

diagram by a dotted line, is not to be cut 
through. With the segments of the square 
so provided it is possible to construct an 
astonishing variety of figures, 
the discovery of which pro- 
vides a fund of amusement 
in itself, 

Let me begin by illustrat- 
ing a touching story, with a 
moral : M The Story of the 
Unjust Lodger and the Vir- 
tuous landlady." You will 
please suppose that the land- 
lady has provided a bloater for 
the breakfast of the lodger. 
The lodger complained of the 
bloater. He said he respected 


square and the corner D, and draw H J. If 
the square is now cut upon the firm lines 
shown in the figure, it gives two large 
triangles, one triangle half the size, two others 
half the size of that, and a square and a 
rhomboid It is to be noted that the portion 
of the triangle diagonal H B, marked in the 


antiquity, but did not admire that quality in 
relation to food. I regret to put on record that 
both parties so far forgot the natural dignity 
of their respective positions as to assume in 
their subsequent behaviour the mutually 
aggressive attitudes depicted in Fig, 3, 

This is the policeman 
called in— a type of all 
that is beautiful and noble 
inhuman nature ; and the 
lodger was politely shown 
downstairs by "The 
Machinery of the I^aw, ' 
leaving a picture of 
tyranny chastised and 
virtue triumphant. 

I will next endea- 
vour to represent 
geometrically a short 
series of pleasmg types 





In alt cases, I feel sure, the underlying senti- 
ment will directly appeal to sympathetic 


Then we have two gentlemen engaged in 
a quiet, friendly discussion on the subject of 
the " Fiscal Policy " (Fig. 8), and next (Fig. 9) 
" Two ladies absorbed in discussing the 
interesting subject of dress during a lucid 
interval of a shopping expedition." 


natures and speak for itself. Here (Fig. 6) 
■ a popular ballad pictorially illustrated, 
"When Johnny Comes Marching Home." 

Then comes (Fig, 7) a tableau from a 
murderous melodrama, " The Guileless 
Maiden and the Dreadful Duke." 


Finally, we have perhaps the most success- 
ful of our series— two graceful modern dances 
(Fig. io), the " Skirt Dance" and the "Cake 


^oL **jriiL— H, 

Original fir 




Bv E. Nesbit. 

HEN you are young so many 
things are difficult to believe, 
and yet the dullest people will 
tell you that they are true. 
Such things, for instance, as 
that the earth goes round thd 
sun, and that it is not flat, but round. Yet 
the things that seem really likely, such as fairy- 
tales and magic, are, so say the grown-ups, 
not true at all Yet they are so easy to 
believe, especially when you see them happen- 
ing. And, as I am always telling you, the 
most wonderful things happen to all sorts of 
people, only you never hear about them 
because the people think that no one will 
believe their stories, and so they don't tell 
them to anyone except me, And they 
tell me because they know that I can believe 

When Jimmy had awakened the sleeping 
Princess and she had invited the three child- 
ren to go with her to her palace and get 
something to eat, they all knew quite surely 
that they had come into a place of magic 
happenings. And they walked in a slow 
procession along the grass towards the castle 

iocigtr " 

The Princess went first, and Jimmy carried 
her shining train j then came Kathleen, and 
Gerald came last: They were all quite sure 
that they had walked right into the middle 
of a fairy-tale, and they were the more ready 
to be sure because they were so tired and 
hungry. They were, in fact, so hungry and 
tired that they hardly noticed where the? 
were going, or observed the beauties of the 
formal gardens through which the pink silk 
Princess was leading them. They were in a 
sort of dream, from which they only partially 
awakened to find themselves in a big hall, 
with suits of armour and old flags round the 
wall, skins of beasts on the floor, and heavy 
oak tables and benches ranged along it. 

The Princess entered, slow and stately, but, 
once inside, she twitched her sheeny train 
out of Jimmy's hand and turned to the 

** You just wait here a minute," she said, 
" and mind you don't talk while I'm away. 
This castle is crammed with magic, and I 
don't know what will happen if you talk." 
And with that, picking up the thick, goldy- 
pink folds under her arms, she ran out, as 
Jimmy said afterwards, " most unprincesslike," 
by e* NesbuOriginal from 




showing as she lan black stockings and black 
strap shoes. 

Jimmy wanted very much to say that he 
didn't believe anything would happen, only 
he was afraid something would happen if he 
did, so he merely made a face and put out 
his tongue The others pretended not to see 
this, which was much more crushing than 
anything else they could have done. 

So they sat in silence and Gerald ground 
the heel of his boot upon the marble floor. 
Then the Princess came back, very slowly, 
and kicking her long skirts in front of her at 
every step. She could not hold them up 
now because of the tray she carried. 

It was not a silver tray, as you might have 
expected, but an oblong tin one. She set it 
down noisily on the end of the long table 
and breathed a sigh of relief, 

11 Oh, it was heavy," she said I don't 
know what fairy feast the children's fancy 
had been busy with. Anyhow, this was 
nothing like it The heavy tray held a loaf 

(£ Roast chicken," said Kathleen, without 

The pinky Princess cut a slice of bread 
and laid it on a dish, " There you are," she 
said, " roast chicken. Shall I carve it, or will 
you ? ■ 

" You, please," said Kathleen ; and re- 
ceived a piece of dry bread on a plate, 

11 Green peas?" asked the Princess^ and 
cut a piece of cheese and laid it beside the 

Kathleen began to eat the bread, cutting 
it up with knife and fork as you would eat 
chicken. It was no use owning that she 
didn't see any chicken and peas, or anything 
but cheese and dry bread, because that would 
be owning that she had some dreadful secret 

l< If I have, it is a secret even from me," 
she told herself. 

The others asked for roast beef and 
cabbage — and got it, she supposed, though 
to her it only looked like dry bread and 

-v .it. * 

14 mi 


or bread, a lump of cheese, and a brown jug 
of water. The rest of its heaviness was just 
plates and mugs and knives. 

"Come along/ 5 said the Princess, hospit- 
ably. I( I couldn't find anything but bread 
and cheese ; but it doesn't matter, because 
everything's magic here, and unless you have 
some dreadful secret fault the bread and 
cheese will turn into anything you like, 
What wou/J you like ? " she asked Kathleen, 

Dutch cheese, u I do wonder what my 
dreadful secret fault is," she thought, as the 
Princess remarked that, as for her, she could 
fancy a slice of roast peacock. " This one," 
she added, lifting a second mouthful of dry 
bread on her fork, " is quite delicious." 

" It's a game, isn't it ? " asked Jimmy, 

" What's a game ? " asked the Princess, 




" Pretending it's beef— the bread and 
cheese, I mean/' 

H A game ? But it is beet Look at it," 
said the Princess* opening her eyes very wide. 

** Yes, of course," said Jimmy, feebly. " I 
was only joking/' 

Bread and cheese is not, perhaps, so good 
as roast beef, or chicken, or peacock (I'm 
not sure about the peacock, I never tasted 
peacock ; did you ?), but bread and cheese is, 
at any rate* very much better than nothing 
when you have had nothing since breakfast 
except gooseberries and ginger- beer, and it is 
long past your proper dinner-time. Everyone 
ate and drank and felt much better. 

" Now," said the Princess, brushing the 
breadcrumbs off her green silk lap, "if 
you're sure you won't have any more meat 
you can come and see my treasures. Sure 
you won*t take the least bit more chicken? 
No ? Then follow me." 

She got up and they followed her down 
the long hall to the end, where the great 
stone stairs ran up at each side and joined in 
a broad flight leading to the 
gallery above. Under the stairs 
was a hanging of tapestry. 

1 ( B en eat h this arras, " said 
the Princess, "is the door lead- 
ing to my private apartments." 
She held the tapestry up with 
both hands, for it was heavy, 
and showed a little door that 
had been hidden by it 

" The key," she said, " hangs 

And so it did — on a large 
rusty nail. 

" Put it in," said the Princess, 
"and turn it." 

Gerald did so, and the great 
key creaked and grated in 
the lock. 

"Now push," she said; 
"push hard, all of you." 

They pushed hard, all of 
them, The door gave way, 
and they fell over each other 
into the dark space beyond. 

The Princess dropped the 
curtain and came after them, 
closing the door behind her. 

" Look out ! " she said, 
" look out ! There are two 
steps down." 

"Thank you," said Gerald, 
rubbing his knee at the bot- 
tom of the steps. u We found 
that out for ourselves." 

" Fm sorry," said the Princess, " but you 
can't have hurt yourselves much. Go straight 
on. There aren't any more steps." 

They went straight on — in the dark, 

"When you come to the door just turn 
the handle and go in. Then stand still till I 
find the matches, I know where they are.' 1 

11 Did they have matches a hundred years 
ago? ?J asked Jimmy. 

" I meant the tinder-box," said [he 
Princess, quickly. " We always called it the 
matches. Don't you ? Here t let me go 

She did ; and when they had reached the 
door she was waiting for them with a candle 
in her hand She thrust it on Gerald 

" Hold it steady, '' she said, and undid the 
shutters of a long window, so that first a 
yellow streak and then a blazing, great 
oblong of light flashed at them, and the 
room was full of sunshine. 

" It makes the candle look quite silly," 
said Jimmy. 

"So it does/' said the Princess, and 

by Google 


Original from 



blew out the candle- Then she took the 
key from the outside of the door, put it in 
the inside keyhole, and turned it 

The room they were in was small and high. 
Its ceiling was of deep blue, with gold stars 
painted on it. The walls were of wood, richly 
carved. And there was no furniture in it 

" This," said the Princess, " is my treasure 

u But where," inquired Kathleen, politely, 

"are the treasures?" 

41 Don't you see them ? " asked the Princess. 

"No, we don't," said Jimmy, bluntly. "You 

don't come that bread-and-cheese game with 

me — not twice over, you don't." 

" If you really don't see them," said the 
Princess, " I suppose I shall have to say the 
charm. Shut your eyes, please, and give 
me your word of honour you won't look till 
I tell you." 

Their words of honour were something 
that the children would rather not have 
given just then — but they gave them, all the 
same, and shut their eyes tight. 

"Wiggadil yougadoo begadee leegadeeve 
nowgadow ? " said the Princess, rapidly ; and 
they heard the swish of her silk train moving 
across the room. Then there was a creak- 
ing, rustling noise. 
"She's locking us in ! " cried Jimmy. 
" Your word of honour ! " gasped Gerald. 
u 0h, do be quick ! " moaned Kathleen. 
"You may look," said the voice of the 
Princess. And they looked. The room was 
not the same room; yet — yes, the starry, 
vaulted blue ceiling was there, and under it 
half-a-dozen feet of the dark panelling, but 
below that the walls of the room blazed and 
sparkled with white and blue, and red and 
green, and gold and silver. Shelves ran 
round the room, and on them were gold 
cups and silver dishes, and platters and 
goblets set with gems, ornaments of gold 
and silver, tiaras of diamonds, necklaces of 
nibies, strings of emeralds and pearls — all 
set out in unimaginable splendour against a 
background of faded blue velvet. It was 
like the Crown jewels that you see when your 
kind uncle takes you to the Tower, only 
there were far more jewels than you or any- 
one else has ever seen together at the Tower 
or anywhere else. 

The three children remained breathless, 
open - mouthed, staring at the sparkling 
splendours all about them ; while the 
Princess stood, her arm stretched out in a 
gesture of command and a proud smile on 

^ gteed by GoOgk 

"My word!" said Gerald, in a low 

But no one spoke out loud. They waited 
as if spellbound for the Princess to speak. 

She spoke. 

"What price bread-and-cheese games 
now?" she asked, triumphantly. "Can I 
do magic, or can't I ? " 

" You can — oh, you can," said Kathleen. 

" May we — may we touch?" asked Gerald. - 

"All that is mine is yours," said the 
Princess, with a generous wave of her brown 
hand, and added, quickly : " Only, of course, 
you mustn't take anything away with 

"We're not thieves," said Jimmy. The 
others were already busy turning over the 
wonderful things on the blue velvet shelves. 

"Perhaps not," said the Princess; "but 
you're a very unbelieving little boy. You 
think I can't see inside you, but I can. / 
know what you've been thinking." 

" What ? " asked Jimmy. 

" Oh, you know well enough," said the 
Princess. " You're thinking about the bread 
and cheese that I changed into beef and 
about your secret fault. I say, let's all dress 
up, and you be Princes and Princesses too." 

" To crown our hero," said Gerald, lifting 
a gold crown with a cross on the top, " was 
the work of a moment." He put the crown 
on his head, and added a collar of SS and a 
zone of sparkling emeralds which would not 
quite meet over his shirt. He turned from 
fixing it by an ingenious adaptation of his 
belt to find the others already decked with 
diadems, necklaces, -and rings. 

" How splendid you look ! " said the Prin- 
cess, "and how I wish your clothes were 
prettier ! What ugly clothes people wear 
nowadays ! A hundred years ago " 

Kathleen stood quite still with a diamond 
bracelet raised in her hand. 

" I say," she said ; " the King and Queen." 

"What King and Queen?" asked the 

" Your father and mother," said Kathleen. 
"They'll have waked up by now. Won't 
they be wanting to see you after a hundred 
years, you know ? " 

"Oh— ah— yes," said the Princess, slowly. 
"I embraced my rejoicing parents when I 
got the bread and cheese. They're having 
their dinner. They won't expect me yet. 
Here," she added, hastily putting a ruby 
bracelet on Kathleen's arm, "see how 
splendid that is ! " 

Kathleen would have been quite contented 
to go on all day trying on different jewels and 


1 IO 


looking at herself in the little silver-framed 
mirror that the Princess took from one of 
the shelves, but the boys were soon tired 
of it. 

"Look here," said Gerald, "if you're sure 
your father and mother won't want you, 

u What's all this rubbish?" she asked. 

" Rubbish, indeed!" said the Princes 
" Why, those are all magic things 1 This 
bracelet — anyone who wears it has got to 
speak the truth. This chain makes you as 
strong as ten men; if you wear this spur 


let's go out and have a jolly good game of 
something. You could play besieged castles 
awfully well in that maze. Unless you can 
do any more magic tricks." 

* s You forget," said the Princess, " Vm 
grown up. I don't play games. And I don't 
like to do too much magic at a time— it's so 
tiring, Besides, it'll take us ever so long to 
put all these things back in their proper 

It did. The children would have laid the 
jewels just anywhere, but the Princess showed 
them that every necklace, or ring, or bracelet 
had its own proper place on the velvet — a 
slight hollowing in the shelf beneath so that 
each stone fitted into its own little nest. 

As Kathleen was fitting the last shining 
ornament into its proper place she saw that 
part of the shelf near it held, not bright 
jewels, but rings and brooches and chains, as 
well as queer things that she did not know 
the names of, and all were of dull metal and 
odd shapes. 

by LiOOgle 

your horse will go a mile a minute ; or, if 
you're walking, it's the same as seven-league 
boots, 5 ' 

"What does this brooch do?" asked 
Kathleen, reaching out her hand, The 
Princess caught her by the wrist, 

"You mustn't touch, '* she said ; "if any- 
one but me touches them all the magic goes 
out at once and never comes back. That 
brooch will give you any wish you like," 

14 And this ring ? " Jimmy pointed. 

"Qh f that makes you invisible," 

"What's this?" asked Gerald, showing a 
curious buckle, 

" Oh, that undoes the effect of all the other 

1 ' Do y ou mean tea fly?" J i m m y as ked. 
"You're not just kidding? " 

u Kidding, indeed ! " repeated the Princess 
scornfully* "I should have thought I'd 
shown you enough magic to prevent you 
speaking to a Princess like that 1 " 

" I say/ 1 said Gerald, visibly excited, "You 




might show us how some of the things act. 
Couldn't ytrn give us each a wish ? " 

The Princess did not at once answer. And 
the minds of the three played with granted 
wishes — brilliant, yet thoroughly reasonable — 
the kind of wish that never seems to occur 
to people in fairy-tales when they suddenly 
get a chance to have their three wishes 
granted. ' 

" No," said the Princess, suddenly, " no ; 
I can't give wishes to yoti— it only gives me 
wishes. But I'll let you see the ring make 
me invisible Only you must shut your eyes 
while I do it" 

They shut them. 

" Count fifty," said the Princess, " and then 
you may look. And then you must shut 
them again, and count fifty, and I'll 

Gerald counted aloud. Through the 
counting one could hear a creaking, rustling 

"Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!" 
said Gerald, and everyone opened their eyes. 

They were alone in the room. The jewels 
had vanished and so had the Princess. 

" She's gone out by the door, of course," 
said Jimmy, but the door was locked. 

"That is magic," said Kathleen, breath- 

"Maskelyne and Devant can do that 
trick," said Jimmy. "And I want my 

" Your tea ! " Gerald's tone was full of 
contempt " The lovely Princess," he went 
on, "reappeared as soon as our hero had 
finished counting fifty. One, two, three, 
four " 

Gerald and Kathleen had both closed 
their eyes. But somehow Jimmy hadn't. 
He didn't mean to cheat He just forgot 
And as Gerald's count reached thirty he saw 
a panel under the window open slowly. 

"Her," he said to himself. "I knew it 
was a trick ! " And at once shut his eyes, 
for he was an honourable little boy. 

On the word " fifty " six eyes opened. 
And the panel was closed and there was no 

" She hasn't pulled it off this time," said 

" Perhaps you'd better count again," said 

"I believe there's a cupboard under the 
window," said Jimmy, "and she's hidden in 
it Secret panel, you know." 

"You looked; that's cheating," said the 
voice of the Princess so close to his ear that 
he quite jumped. 

" I didn't cheat" " Where on earth - 

"Whatever " said all three together. 

For still there was no Princess to be seen. 

" Come back visible, Princess, dear," said 
Kathleen. "Shall we shut our eyes and 
count again ? " 

" Don't be silly," said the voice of the 
Princess, and it sounded very cross. 

"We're not silly," said Jimmy, and his 
voice was cross too. " Why can't you come 
back and have done with it? You know 
you're only hiding." 

" Don't," said Kathleen, gently. " She is 
invisible, you know." 

" So should I be if I got into the cup- 
board," said Jimmy. 

" Oh, yes," said the sneering tone of the 
Princess, " you think yourselves very clever, 
I dare say. But /don't mind. We'll play 
that you can't see me, if you like." 

" Well, but we can't," said Gerald ; ' \ it's no 
use getting in a wax. If you're hiding, as 
Jimmy says, you'd better come out If you've 
really turned invisible you'd better make 
yourself visible again." 

" Do you really mean," asked a voice, 
quite changed, but still the Princess's, " that 
you can't see me ? " 

" Can't you see we can't ? " asked Jimmy, 
rather unreasonably. 

The sun was blazing in at the window ; 
the room was very hot, and everyone was 
getting cross. 

"You can't see me?" There was the 
sound of a sob in the voice of the invisible 

" Nc y I tell you," said Jimmy, "and I 
want my tea — and " 

What he was saying was broken off short, 
as one might break a stick of sealing-wax. 
And then in the golden afternoon a really 
quite horrid thing happened ; Jimmy sud- 
denly leant backwards, then forwards, his 
eyes opened wide, and his mouth too. 
Backward and forward he went, very quickly 
and abruptly, then stood still. 

"Oh, he's in a fit! Oh, Jimmy, dear 
Jimmy ! " cried Kathleen, hurrying to him. 
" What is it, dear, what is it ? " 

"It's not a fit," gasped Jimmy, angrily. 
"She shook me." 

"Yes," said the voice of the Princess, 
"and I'll shake him again if he keeps on 
saying he can't see me." 

"You'd better shake tne," said Gerald, 
angrily. " I'm nearer your own size." 

And instantly she did. But not for long. 
The moment Gerald felt hands on his 
should^^^^^^w^and caught 



them bjr the wrists, And there he was, 
holding wrists that he couldn't see. . It was 
a dreadful sensation. An invisible kick 
made him wince, but he held tight to the 

"Cathy," he cried, "come and hold her 
legs ; shes kicking me," , . , ., 

" Where ? " cried Kathleen, anxious to 
help* " I don't see any legs." 

"This is her hands I've got," cried Gerald, 

the moment he had done so he found it im- 
possible to believe that he .jejajly had been 
holding invisible hands. 

"You're Just pretending not, to see me," 
said the Princess, anxiously, "aren't you? 
Do say you are. You've had your joke with 
me, froh't keep it up. I don't like it/' 

"On our sacred word of honour/' saui 
Gerald, " you're still invisible." 

There was a silence. Then, "Come/' said 


"She is invisible right enough. Get hold of 
this hand, and then you can feel your way 
down to her legs," 

Kathleen did so. I wish I could make you 
understand how very, very uncomfortable and 
frightening it in to feel, in broad daylight, 
hands and arms that you can't see/' 

M I won't have you hold my legs/' said the 
invisible Princess, struggling violently. 

11 What are you so cross about ? " Gerald 
was quite calm, "You said you'd be 
invisible, and you are.'* 

"I'm not." 

" You are really. Ix>ok in the glass." 

M I'm not ; I can't be," 

u Look in the glass," Gerald repeated, 
quite unmoved. 

" Let go, then," she said. Gerald did, and 

the Princess, * * I '11 let you out, and you can 
go. I'm tired of playing with you." 

They followed her voice to the door and 
through it, and along the little passage into 
the hall No one said anything. Everyone 
felt very uncomfortable. 
• " Let's get out of this," whUpered Jimmy, 
as they got to the end of the hall. But the 
; voice of the Princess said : — 

" Come out this way ; it's quicker, 
think you're perfectly hateful. I'm sorry 1 
ever played with you. Auntie always told 
me not to play with strange children/ 1 

A door abruptly opened, though no hand 
was seen to touch it. " Come through, cant 
you ? ?p said the voice of the Princess, 

It was a little ante-room, with long, narrow 
mirrors between its long, narrow windows. 




"Good-bye," said Gerald. u Thanks for 
giving us such a jolly time. Let's part 
friends," he added, holding out his hand. 

An unseen hand was slowly put in his, 
which closed on it, vice-like. 

"Now," he said, "you've jolly well got to 
look in the glass and own that we're not 

He led the invisible Princess to one of the 
mirrors and held her in front of it by the 

"Now," he said, "you just look for 

There was a silence, and then a cry of 
despair rang through the room. 

"Oh, oh, oh ! I. am invisible. Whatever 
shall I do?" 

"Take the ring off," said Kathleen, sud- 
denly practical. 
Another silence. 

" I can't? cried the Princess. " It won't 
come off. But it can't be the ring. Rings 
don't make you invisible." 

"You said this one did," said Kathleen, 
"and it has." 

" But it can't? said the Princess. " I was 
only playing at magic. I just hid in the 
secret cupboard— it was only a game. Oh, 
whatever shall I do ? " 

"A game ? " said Gerald, slowly ; " but you 
can do magic — the invisible jewels — and you 
made them come visible." 

u 0h, it's only a secret spring and the 
panelling slides up. Oh, what am I to 

Kathleen moved towards the voice and 
gropingly got her arms round a pink silk waist 
that she couldn't see. Invisible arms clasped 
her, a hot invisible cheek was laid against 
hers, and warm invisible tears lay wet between 
the two faces. 

"Don't cry, dear," said Kathleen; "let 
me go and tell the King and Queen." 

"The " 

"Your Royal father and mother." 
"Oh, don't mock me," said the poor 
Princess. " You know that was only a game 

too, like " 

"Like the bread and cheese," said Jimmy, 
triumphantly. " I knew that was ! " 
" But your dress and being asleep in the 

maze, and " 

"Oh, I dressed up for fun, because every- 
one's away at the Fairwich Fair, and I put the 
clue just to make it all more real. I was 
playing at Fair Rosamond first, and then I 
heard you talking in the maze, and I thought 
*hat fun ; and now I'm invisible, and I shall 
Aever come right again — never. I know I 

sha'n't It serves me right for lying, but I 
didn't really think you'd believe it — not more 
than half, that is," she added, hastily, trying 
to be truthful. 

"But if you're not the Princess, who are 
you?" asked Kathleen, still embracing the 

" I'm My aunt lives here," said the 

invisible Princess. " She may be home any 
time. Oh, what shall I do ? " 

" Perhaps she knows some charm " 

" Oh, nonsense ! " said the voice, sharply ; 
11 she doesn't believe in charms. She would 
be so cross. Oh, I daren't let her see me 
like this," she added, wildly. "And all of 
you here too. She'd be so dreadfully 

The beautiful magic castle that the children 
had believed in now felt as though it were 
tumbling about their ears. All that was left 
was the invisibleness of the Princess. But 
that, you will own, was a good deal. 

" I just said it," moaned the voice, "and it 
came true. I wish I'd never played at 
magic — I wish I'd never played at anything 
at all." 

"Oh, don't say that," Gerald said, kindly. 
"Let's go out into the garden — near the 
lake, where it's cool, and we'll hold a 
solemn council. You'll like that, won't 

"Oh!" cried Kathleen, suddenly, "the 
buckle : that makes magic come undone ! " 

" It doesn't really? murmured the voice 
that seemed to speak without lips. " I only 
just said that" 

"You only *just said' about the ring," 
said Gerald. "Anyhow, let's try." 

"Not _>><?# — me? said the voice. "You go 
down to the Temple of Flora, by the lake. 
I'll go back to the jewel-room by myself. 
Aunt might see you." 

" She won't see you? said Jimmy. 

" Don't rub it 'in," said Gerald. "Where 
is the Temple of Flora ? " 

"That's the way," the voice said ; " down 
those steps and along the winding path 
through the shrubbery. You can't miss it. 
It's white marble with a statue goddess 

The three children went down to the white 
marble Temple of Flora and sat down in its 
shadowy inside. It had arches all round, 
except behind the statue, and was cool and 

They had not been there five minutes 
before the feet of a runner sounded loud 
on the nra^-fhadow, very black and 
distinct, fell on the white marble floor. 

ii 4 


u Your shadow's not invisible, anyhow/' 
said Jimmy. 

" Oh, bother my shadow/' the voice of the 
Princess replied "We left the key inside 
the door, and it's shut itself with the wind, 
and it's a spring lock." 

r m _r m - 

■" said a voice broken with 
sobs, tl I'm the housekeeper's niece at the 
castle, and my name's Mabel Prowse;* 

M That's exactly what I thought," said 
jimmy, without a shadow of truth, because 
how could he ? 


There was a heartfelt pause. 

Then Gerald said in his most business-like 
manner : — 

44 Sit down, Princess, and we'll have a 
thorough good palaver about it." 

"I shouldn't wonder,"' said Jimmy, " if we 
were to wake up and find it was dreams," 

M No such luck/' said the voice. 

14 Well," said Gerald, "first of all, what's 
your name, and if you're not a Princess, who 
are you ? n 

The others w T ere silenL 

It was a moment full of agitation and 
confused ideas, 

41 Well, anyhow/' said Gerald, "you belong 

**Yes," said the voice, and it came from 
the floor, as though its owner had flung her- 
self down in the madness of despair* **Oh, 
yes, I belong here right enough, but what's 
the use of belonging anywhere if you're 
invisible ? " 

(To he continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 

From Other Magazines. 




A M ON GST the Chinese I here are still in existence 
^ \ various forms of self-torture and methods of 
voluntarily inflicting bodily pin and discomfort to 
atone for the sins of others sind to make peace with 
the powers thai be. The rungs of the ladder 
employed in climbing the ladder of knives 
consisted of twenty four long, keen blades, edge 
uppermost- I can guarantee the sharpness of every 
rung, for each was critically examined by me before 
the ladder was hoisted into an upright position, The 
devotee coin pie ted tile journey to the top and down 

Fin without apparent injury. — F, KNOCK GK, F*Z*5. t 

\| K. JUSTICE MAILE, one of the most 
1 \ 4 notable of the Victorian judges, is the prince 
of judicial wits- "My lord, you may believe me or 
nut, bnt I have stated not a word that is false, for I 
have been wedded to truth from my in fancy,** 
exclaimed a witness when cautioned by the judge, 
*' Yes, sir," said Mr. Justice Maule ; "but the 
question is how Jong you have l>ren a widower." — 


IN that piece of country known as the King f s Field, 
comprising the Wapentake of Wirks worth, any- 
one has a right to prospect for lead when and where 
he pleases, with three exceptions — he may not 
prosecute his seirch in a garden, orchard, or <m the 
high road. This curious right came to light some 
years ago, when a descent of prospectors was 

threatened on a big estate, and the owner, to protect 
himself, was ohliged to plant one of his meadows 
with fruit trees, Needless to say, when all danger 
of the invasion had vanished the fruit trees quickly 
followed suit. — *' country life." 



THE auction -room is the prime place for Uirgains 
if you can find the lime to watch and attend 
Sides. Some of the finest gems that have fallen to 
my share have been spotted in mixed lots herded 
away with common stamps, 
Once I found a* very great 
rarity lotted as an ordinary 
rare stamp, and I felt 
sure* as it was known only 
to a few of us, that it 
would fall into my net. 
So I kept in the* back- 
ground and gave my com- 
mission to a dealer to start 
it at shillings, but to go 
as far as twelve pounds 
if forced to do so. But, 
alas ! I was nol the only 
Richard in the field, It was started, not at shillings, 
hut at thirty pounds. I was not so fortunate as a 
fellow -specialist who, on a similar errand at another 
sale, j^nt for eighteen shillings a rarity he was pre- 
pared to bid for up to t went v -five pounds.— B, J. 


IF I understand the matter rightly, it will be a case 
of poetic, as well as real, justice should the 
Indian Government sanction Ranjitsinhji's succession. 
It will certainly be a decision extremely popular with 
the other Princes of Kajputana, and naturally with 
ihe British people at home. People in England 
possibly regard Kanjitsinhji as a cricketer and nothing 
more. We who know him intimately know him 
as a man admirably fitted to rule.— c, B. fry, in 


■ i i"n.mi..iqt \virpfpn|H-|^jfA:nrfr|pp wankanrk. kanjit- 


Copyright, 1906* by George Newness, Limited 
[ We shall be glad to receive Cwtii&utwns to this section*, and t& pay for stttk as are actepteaV\ 


I SEND you 
the photo- 
graph of a shop 
at Heme Bay. 
The window 
offered the invita- 
tion shown in the 
print during the 
whole of last sea- 
son, to my own 
Heme Bay trip 
pers are evidently 
careless of what 
they eat, for the 
photograph re- 
presents I Vie prin- 
cipal " I lam and 
Bee" shop in the 

place* — Mr. John T. Day, So, 

KhnbmiMH- Kiiad, Tooling Co&nrnon, S. W. 

r T^ilE weird bulb repro- 
X dut \*lliere t and known 
as Saumoralum Gultatum, 
or more familiarly "Mon- 
arch of the East," has the ex- 
traordinary power of being 
able to sit on a table or 
mantelpiece in mid-winter 
and, Vk iihout earth or waler, 
produce a huge flower 
eighteen inches high* Its 
Only necessity is something 
to sit mi, Ii takings to 
the same family as the 
while arum lily, and the 
timer is like a (all* narrow 
edition of its white cousin* 
but is of a splendid yellow, 
richly spotted with velvety 
crimson. The bulb (which 
is not expensive to buy) is 
not unlike a large half- 
penny or a small penny 
bun, and must I*? placed, 
without earth or water, on 
a mantelpiece. In an in- 
credibly short time the 
flower will appear ; when 
it has faded the bulb should 
he planted in the [garden, 
where in spring it will throw 
up a stout stem two feet 
high, covered with dark 
purple spots, and bearing 
at the summit a huge 

with a very serious accident, 
from Heidelberg 
to my residence, 
w hen I w a I 
struck by light- 
ning. The current 
made a hole in the 
back of my head 
and passed over 
my liackand arms. 
My clothes were 
nearly burned off 
my body; one shoe 
was taken clean 
off. The drums 
of both ears are 
broken. The cim- 
s-quencc is that I 
am very deaf + I 
send you a photo- 
graph of myself 
taken after the 
accident. I am 
fairly well now, 
although I had to 
keep my bed fnr 
six months. The 
only thing that 
l rou hi es me is d ea f- 
ness and noises in 
my head. I con- 
sider it a most 
wonderful escape 
from sudden death. 
Photo, by F. W. 
P r i r s e 1 m a n n , 
Heidelberg, S.A* 
— Mr. Ilerlicrt 
Bowker, Nigel, 

umbrella - shaped 
leaf. Dig up the 
bulb in autumn, 
wash it and make 
it lidy and put it 
mi the main el- 
piece, and il will 
bloom just as he- 
fore ; in fact, the 
fascinating for- 
mula may be re- 
peated year afier 
year. — Mr. Clat- 
enceElliott, White 
Webbs, Hartley 
Common, Herts. 


SOME time 
ago I met 
I was riding a bicycle 



*? -^-f^f** •*} ■** .^^^-^y — f *+ 

-~» **f~^-.^ 



*+^-p^<f m^^^f ^4^ 

A >^ *^— ^--rf r^M*j 


A CORRESPONDENT, name unknown, has 
sent us the curiously -addressed envelope 
vhicfa we reproduce here. The strarge words, we 
are informed by the Post Office authorities, represent 

I he sounds as made by the key of the modern Morse 
instrument. " Idely iddy " stand for "dots" and 

II amply " for a dash. The envelope reached us as 
easily as if it had been addressed in the orthodox way- 


HIDDEN safely in an ordinary potato there 
reposed for over a year, undiscovered, a pure 
white gem valued at something over six hundred 
pound*. The fortunate possessor of this unexpected 
treasure is Mrs. John P. Riche, of Portland, Oregon. 
One day she received through the post a mysterious 
package with Lhe South African post mark. On 
unpacking she found that the parcel contained what 
looked like an ordinary lump oF day* The sub 
ject offering no more interest lor the time being; 
the spherical lump was placed on the drawing- 
room mantelpiece. Over a year afterwards, by 
some lucky accident, let it he said, someone 
knocked the clay l>ali to the ground, whence it 
iclmiinded and split in two halves, revealing 
a white, flesh - like substance which subsequently 
tamed out to be an ordinary white peeled potato. 
This latter again split in half, and lo, out rolled 
a peculiar hard substance ! Not knowing what 
it was* Mr, Riche submitted what looked like a 
pebble to J* scientific friend of his, and to every- 

one's astonishment the pebble 
proved to be nothing less than 
a diamo nd of grea t va I ue. U pon 
mature reflection Mr, Riche 
remembered that some years 
back, when prospecting in 
Alaska, he had run against a 
man very much down on his 
luck. Mr, Riche shared his 
provisions with him, and to- 
gether the two endured the 
hardships of the place, The 
Riches are naturally anxious to 
get some news from this man, 
who they believe has sent 

.H — _ . — ~-iJ them this magnificent present, 

and should these lines meet his 
eyes or those of anyone who knows him, Mr. Riche 
and his lady will be glad to hear from them. 


THIS curious contrivance is built on to the rectory 
garden wall at Stockton, near Rugby, and 
illustrates an original method of education. The 
notice explains the objects of the tl speak -pipe," and 
reads as follows ; " Hoys and Girls speaking up this 
Pipe the sayings and texts taught by the Yen. Arch- 
deacon Col ley (Dio. Natal), Rector of Stockton, 
Warwickshire, will, as a First Reward, have roll down 
to them (in an Orange or an Apple), a Penny on 
holding their hands below the mouth -piece of the 
Pipe up which they speak. And when twelve sayings 
have been said each speaker — shewing by good 
behaviour that what is learned has 1>een out wrought 
in daily life — will then have One Shilling, and know 
how much more than Pelf, Pence or Pounds, shall 
further follow the doing of w r hat the wisdom spoken 
through the Speak- Pipe teaches should be done*" — 
Mr* W* Wilson, 16, Parade, Leamington. 




IS END you a photo- 
graph t iikcn by my- 
self of a box of tin-tacks 
which were fused together 
in the great fire of Chicago. 
The white -looking one in 
the tup corner is an 
ordinary lack* The photo- 
graph is full size. — Mr* 
C, E. Bromilow, Ravens- 
lea, Rain h ill t Lanes, 


CURIOUS things are 
sometimes lost and 
found on the sea t as well 
as on the land, but surely 
few more remark able than 
that shown in the photo 
graph given below. Your 
readers will, perhaps, be 
interested to know th t, 

The structure is of iron, 
length nineteen feel, 
diameter four feel six 
inches , and weight three 
Ions, I wonder if any of 
your readers can say what 
it is* or explain how it 
came to l>e adrift on the 
open sea. Photo- by A- 
torsier, Grimsby* — Cap- 
lain Uncierhill, .133, Wel- 
lington Street, Grimsby. 

whilst fishing in the North Sea sixty 
Point, in April last, I found this 
ubjecl floating on the water. As it 
ous to vessels fishing 
in the vicinity, I 
decided to pick it up 
and bring it home to 
(i rim shy- To get it 
on hoard my ship, the 
<tfercta t however, 
proved more difficult 
than I A first ima- 
gined - t much precious 
time was lost, and 
almost every rope we 
possessed was btoken 
lie fore success crowned 
our efforts. What a 
sensation we created 
when we arrived in 
port with this extra- 
ordinary " catch " ! 

miles from Spurn 
peculiar- looking 
was very danger- 




OVER a year ago I 
noticed in your 
4i Curiosities '* a photo- 
graph of an automobile 
omnibus which was just 
starting to move. In the 
picture the upper halves 
of the wheels were 
blurred while the lower 
halves were not, illus- 
trating I lie fact that the top of a 
wheel running on a surface moves 
with a greater rapidity than the 
bottom* I enclose a picture of 
Robertson, the American driver, 
in a Thomas flyer, while tra vei- 
ling at a rate of sixty- five in lies 
an hour in the recent Vanderbilt 
Cup race on Long Island. It can 
easily be seen that the upper parts 
of the three wheels visible are 
blurred and indistinct, while the 
lower portions are clear, proving 
the phenomenon is not caused by 
the act of starting, but can. be 
observed at any speed. The fact 
of course is that any point at the 
top of the wheel is moving for- 
ward with two motions: (1) lis 
own round the axis ; (2) that of 
the car itself On the other hand, 
a point at the bottom of the 
wheel, while moving forwards 
with the car, is also moving backwards by its 
motion round the axis— so that it appears stationary. 
^Mr. a W., Newark, N.J. 


l/k/w ys^s- 




^//^/^ &#&&&+&$ dfjt*y#£^ f * 



THE following photograph is taken 
from a knot, self- lied in a steel -wire 
rope, seven -eighths of an inch in thick- 
ness. The rope referred to is in use in 
I he Running Lode Mine at Mark Hawk, 
Colorado, which is owned by I he Gower 


ISliXD you a copy of the original paper requesting a gentle- 
man to name place, etc., to fight a duel: "June, 1804. 
Conway, — Since y*ju have acted so ungcntleinanly about l his 
hook and the pipe:, defaming my character as a swindler in the 
first place and acting with such low cunning and meanness in 
the second, that finally 
I resolve to settle 
the matter hy force 
of arms. I now send 
y<>u a challenge to meet 
me at such a place you 
may deem convenient 
he the duel, — Your an- 
tagonist, ( signed ) H. 
Slap."— Mr A. A. Blun- 
der! , kanelagh Road, 
Sheerness- on- Sea . 


T NOTICED a curi- 
L ous add rt ss i n T H K 
Strand some months 
*EJ>* and a in sending 
iMs as an example of 
Lb* international code 
applied to addresses. 
1 hope it will reach 
von safely, as the Post 
CHfitt people are woo- 
^trlully clever and very 
painstaking.— Mr, C« A, 
Mcmllees, c/o Milne, 
lQ i Warrender I 'ark 
Crescent, Edinburgh, 

fifS HI] 


Mines Syndicate, Lld-> 
£ 55i Fen church Street, 
London. This rope, 
while detached from 
1 he ton bucket which 
is used for hoisting ore* 

t^ was raised two or three 

^L^^^ hundred feet before it 

\g^P* was discovered that the 

y ^^**+ bucket was detached. 

When the d isco very 

was made the rope was 

lowered, and while tins 

was being done the end 

ft > % m must have caught on 

|Lp| something in the shaft 

frf which held it and 

'/ "*■ - formed a loop through 

which the end of the 

roj>e dropped after free- 

" ing itself* When the 

rrope was attached to 
the bucket, the weight 
of the latter lightened 
the knot, which was 
not noticed until it 
reached the sheave - 
wheel above the shaft, 
-Mr. 5. K Fouler, 

fginal fragBnt, 415, Gharie* 




I TOOK the foregoing photograph 
through a glass ornament lent me 
by a schc*n I fellow of mine named 1J. 
Jemier. The glass gave sixteen separate 
images of the same object, with ihe 
curious resull shown, — Mr, 1L Howard! 
Woodstock Corner , Uedford Park, 
Ch is wick, W. 


\ I .THOUGH even new there re- 
mains some controversy as to the 
reality of the *' sea -serpent," no opinion 
has so for been expressed as lo the 
existence or otherwise of the "rivrr- 
se rpent . ' ' The or igi rial of t he ph o 1 1 >g m ph 

1 send is what remains of a tree which some years 
hack overbalanced into the Wyong River, N.SAV. 
Struck with its resemblance to a serpent, a local 
resident, with the aid of a tin of while paint, turned 
out a creature of a somewhat terrifying aspect, Wiih 
the exception of the teeth s which are made of zinc, 
the li river serpent*' is entirely original, — Mr* L- R 
Board man, Market Street, Sydney, N.S.W. 


I SEND you a drawing wherein I have created an 
optical illusion artificially. Seen from point B 
you see the outside of the straw hat ; Brow point 
A you sec Ihe inside. Perhaps a humorist would say 
that when you turn a hat upside dr»wn you must see 
the inside. The top hat in the picture has no oiher 
object than to support the general idea of a compart- 
ment hat -rack, since the straw hat, if alone in iis 
particular though usual position, might lie mi sink en 
for a dish or something else* You notice I do not 
continue the line of the inner circumference all round, 
but leave its position to the imagination, which is 
easily assumed by the inference of the shaded portion- 
That line continuation was omitted for the reason 
that its position is not the same in both cases. From 
point E [he hat is an inclined plane in perspective 
necessarily, for here the shadow also indicates the 
outer hat -band, and part of the upper left-hand brim 

is ii.irr.iw luI by I he 
imaginary crown edge 
as well as diminish- 
ing perspective lines. 
From point A the hal 
is a vertical plane no 
longer in perspective, 
and so the brim has 
equal width every- 
where, and what was 
formerly the outer 
hat - l*and has now 
become an inner 
shadow ; so in this 
case the imaginary 
line shifts its position 
from where it was in 
the former category. 
—Mr. VY. H. Jack, 
jun,, Glen wood 
Spiincs, Colorado* 


C^ r\r\Ci\i> Original from 




by Google 

Original from 

XXX 11 L 


Strand M agazin e. 

FEBRUARY, 1907, 

No. 194 


HALL it be, 7T wrote Lord 
Leigh ton, " * The Moorish 
Garden or ' A Dream of 
Granada ' ? * He had just 
finished one of the mo^t 
beautiful of his pictures, and 
which may he said to be the spontaneous 
outcome of I^etghton's deep affect ion for the 
country in T>vhich the scene is laid. The whole 

avenue of luxuriant foliage, its boundaries 
of whitest marble, and in the distance 
the towers of the palace rise in Oriental 
magnificence* A young maiden, sumptuously 
clad, is pacing the cool court, while after her 
strut, with almost conscious pride, a number 
of magnificent pen cocks, whose rainbow 
plumage fills the whole foreground with a 
wonderful effect of mingled form and colour. 


pctore seems imbued with the spirit of 
old Moorish romance, and depicts the time 
*hen the Moors, monarch* for a thousand 
vears, still ruled over the land. " Beautiful 
Granada ! the soft note of the lute no lor. r 
floats through thy moonlit streets ; the 
serenade is do mere heard beneath thy 
tafconies ; the livclv Castanet is silent upon 
thy hills," 

A stately garden — this it is the painter 
shows us- — through which, overhung with 
arches of twining creepers and bordered iby 
a and rose trees in full ttbdefaj O^iilb 
id purls. Its course Ss an 

of *ater ripples and pur 

l— ML 


How skilfully has the artist checked the 
long and monotonous line of white, that 
extends from the neck of the white peacock 
to the margin of the picture, lay introducing 
the single sender feather that stands out 
clearly against the shadows of the stonework ! 
How naturally, too, is the full plumag of 
the other bird depicted ; not a feather hut 
contributes its share to the harmonious 

It is interesting to recall how the picture 
came to he p^JW^rtSffteRT^S' 11 ^' 1 owner > tne 


b'fum *i Ph»tv. bg MatwU. 


Pease were invited by Leighton to call and 
see his Spanish sketches. Among the draw- 
ings was cne of the old Moorish palace at 
Granada, with the River Ebro running 
through it, and another showed a small girl 
feeding peacocks in a garden. 

'* Why," inquired Lady Pease, " don*t you 
put the little girl and the peacocks in the 
garden of the palace ? ,: 

Leighton was much struck by the idea and 
promised to do so. " Will you do it for 
me?" queried Sir Joseph. "With all my 
heart ! " was the instant response, and by the 
next May the picture was duly finished and 
exhibited at the Royal Academy* 

The i( Ophelia" by Sir John Everett 
Millais has been widely acclaimed by many 
eminent critics as the great English painter's 
masterpiece- One admiring t itic does not 
hesitate to say that it is one of the most 
marvellously complete and accurate studies 
of Nature ever made by the hand of man- 
When Millais lit upon the famous passage 
in "Hamlet":— 

Her garments, heavy with their drink, 
Pulfd the poor wretch from her melodious lay 
To muddy death, 

he summoned all his powers to paint such a 

picture of the dead Ophelia as had not before 
been attempted. He was a member of the 
pre* Raphael ite brotherhood — that little band 
of zealous and hopeful young painters whose 
work is signalized by infinite pains in crafts- 
manship. They were men who dreamed 
dreams and saw visions — as became youth. 
Never did they let their visions become 
obscured by the quality and incoherence of 
their paint. Every line, every hair, every 
blade of grass was depicted with scrupulous 

No sooner had the idea of the dead Ophelia 
flashed across the painter's brain than he 
bethought him of a model- — the only model. 
Some time before, an artist friend had dis- 
covered behind the counter of a bonnet shop 
a young woman of striking mien and features. 
A wealth of hair like burnished copper hung 
ac:>ve her pale brow. This was Elizabeth 
Siddal, daughter of a Sheffield tradesman. Her 
discoverer introduced her to his fellow-artists, 
and she frequently sat as model to Millais, 
Holman Hunt, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 
To Rossetti she was a M beautiful, pure, and 
lovable creature." She was his ideal — the ful- 
filment of all his 'ustht tic longings. He taught 

her L^I^R^I^W , f.Wfl^P seir an a r* lind 






accomplished pupil. Eight years later they 
were married, but, alas for their hopes ! their 
connubial bliss proved only too shortlived. 
Within two years the beautiful model was 
stricken down with a mortal illness A few- 
days later she died, Rossetti became 
almost frantic with grief and despair, In a 
touching farewell scene he placed the manu- 
script of all his unpublished poems inside his 
dead wife's coffin. "You were the inspiration 
of my work," he cried, " To you only does 
my work belong," 

In the spring of 1852 " Ophelia n was 
finished by Millais and sent to the Royal 
Academy. There, strange to say, it met 

which his genius seemed to find its widest 
scope. Meissonier, of all the world's painters, 
vf^ facile firinceps master of genre painting. 
For hira, as for Millais, in the first flush 
of his pre-Raphaelite zeal, nothing was too 
minute to notice, too difficult for transcription. 
His critics statu that he painted all his pictures 
under a magnifying glass, but, although there 
may be many who are not lost in admiration 
of the French painter's handiwork, there are 
none who deny him overmastering genius in 
technique. His was the art of taking pains : 
accuracy was his aim, and to obtain accuracy 
no sacrifice was too great, either on his own 
part or on the part of his models. He 


with almost universal condemnation. It was 
so different from the art of the day. People 
could not understand it, and were therefore 
incapable of appreciating it Tom Taylor, 
of Punch, was the only critic to appraise it at 
its true worth, and, it is said, Millais cared 
more for the praise of Tom Taylor than he 
did for the censorious bickerings of all the 
rest of the critics put together. 

Six years after the young English painter 
who was afterwards to become so famous 
painted his ih Ophelia," on the other side of 
the Channel, Jean Louis Ernest Meissonier, 
who had already attained celebrity, was at 
work on one of those precious canvases in 

By J. M. W. TURNER, R.A. 

nearly killed them with fatigue. They had to 
pose in postures which made every fibre of 
their bodies twinge in agony, Many stones 
are told in Paris of the sufferings of 
Meissonier's models, 

Of his own work Meissonier wrote : " I 
am perhaps the most impossible for all living 
painters to copy, for I have no method, no 
settled formula, Face to face with Nature. I 
know nothing beforehand ; I look at her, I 
listen ; she carries me away, suggesting what 
I must do, how I must seize her and make 
her my own, I be^in jiM whe-rv [lie spirit 
moves me, ^jUjj^pjearlv all mv drawings 

have Pig^ftf^F^f^lGW them ' ° n 




one side or the other, to say nothing of the 
strips of wood added to my [minted canvases 1 ' 
Meissonier was essentially a painter of 
men. To him man was much more beautiful 
than woman. " 1 have/' he remarked, '* neither 
aptitude nor desire for the tenderness of the 
brush. 1 " '* Let well alone H he thought a 
motto lit only for the sluggard. He himself 
was always altering ; never satisfied. " When- 
ever/' he wrote, 4I I have tried to paint a 
given subject, every- detail of which has been 
decided upon in advance, the work has 
become uninteresting, odious, to me My 

touch is very rapid. You see the luminous 
paint at once in ray canvases ; my sketches 
are written studies." 

In the picture nf "Soldiers Gambling/' 
purchased by the late Sir Richard 
Wallace, now at Hertford House, the artist 
has given us a truly dramatic theme. We 
see the rough interior of a typical guard- 
room. Two men have been gambling, but 
the game is now at an end, It is easy to 
see how the luck has gone. The victor leans 
forwardOnqitbld feMft, a smile of insolent 

tr im»vtR5iif\ i! diPMic Ws.w skin B a *■«*» 





Frmn a Phuio. b\f ffrfnWfffli^ 


" Well, have you had enough ? " he seems to 
say- His opponent hangs back, scowling, 
moody, and irresolute ; while their barrack- 
room companions press eagerly forward to 
catch the as yet unspoken answer. 

But if we may detect a resemblance 
between the great Frenchman and Millais in 
his youth in certain qualities of colouring and 
technique, is there not a certain kinship be- 
tween the painter of "Ophelia" and Sir Kdward 
Bume-JoncH? Only the latijer's mysticism 
never once deserted him, but followed liim all 
through his artistic career. i% King Cophetua 

and the Beggar Maid " was painted at the 
very height of his renown , and is perhaps 
the most complete of all Bu me- Jones's works. 
Since its exhibition in 1884 it has never lost 
its popularity with picture critics and the 
public. The theme is one that has often 
been treated bv painters, but surely never 
treated with such overwhelming splendour of 
craftsmanship and gorgeous detail as here. 
The painter seems to have poured all his 



marble, rich drapery, blue and purple, rose 
and violet — only throw the more into relief 
the figure of the low-born but beautiful 
maiden whom King Cophetua has seated upon 
his throne. It has been remarked that the 
chased armour of the Royal lover and the 
crown which he bears in his hand are very 
marvels of the goldsmith's art. Standing 
behind and above the curiously wrought 
throne are two fair and stately children ; 
behind and beyond a glimpse of blue sky 
and woodland is revealed. 

But nothing in the picture attracts the 
attention from its central, supreme idea — the 
self-abasement of the warrior-king in the 
presence of the woman he loves. Even 
though she, whom he has raised to share his 
throne, be a shrinking beggar maid, yet he is 
lost in her worship. 

It is a singular coincidence that in the very 
year of Sir John Millais's birth a picture was 
hung in position in the Royal Academy which 
has been held to be the masterpiece of its 
author in its higher degree as the " Ophelia " 
is the masterpiece of Millais. It is related 
that Rogers, the poet, one day presented a 
copy of Pope's "Odyssey" to the great 
Turner. The volume was afterwards carried 
about for a matter of two years by the painter, 
with the following passage heavily marked in 
the margin : — 

Now off at sea, and from the shallows clear, 
As fax as human voice could reach the ear ; 
With taunts the distant giant I accost, 
Hear me, oh Cyclop ! hear, ungracious host, 
Twas on no coward, no ignoble slave, 
Thou medhat'st thy meal in yonder cave. 
Cyclop ! if any, pitying thy disgrace, 
Ask who disfigured thus that eyeless face ? 
Say 'twas Ulysses ; 'twas his deed declare, 
Laertes' son of Ithaca the fair ; 
Ulysses, far in fighting fields renown'd, 
Before whose arm Troy tumbled to the ground. 
Thus I ; while raging he repeats his cries 
With hands uplifted to the starry skies. 

The picture limning forth the scene 
conjured up by the poet was begun, arrested, 
and begun again, and Turner seriously set 
about the production of a masterpiece. But 
so high was his ideal that for a long time it 
seemed as if "Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus" 
would never have an existence. But at last, 
in a frenzy of inspiration, the painter found 

the masterpiece looming suddenly, almost 
miraculously, one day from the canvas. The 
golden and crimson light of a brilliant sunrise 
illumined it. We see the gorgeous galley of 
Ulysses on the point of embarking from 
the island where dwelt the terrible Cyclops. 
On the top of the cliff the monster is 
seen writhing in his blind, impotent rage, 
while close inshore are the remains of the 
fire in which the fatal olive-staff was heated 
by Ulysses and his companions preparatory 
to putting out the Cyclop's eye. 

Still more mystic, even more romantic 
than the painter of " King Cophetua," was 
Dante Gabriel Rossetti. "The Sea Spell" 
is not considered one of his finest works, 
although it bears the stamp of the artist's 
peculiar genius in its every brush-mark. Yet 
he himself, doubtless owing to the conditions 
under which it was painted, esteemed this 
canvas as amongst his most cherished works. 
He penned a sonnet especially for it, and 
inscribed it on the base of the frame : — 

Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple tree, 

While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell 
Between its cords : and as the wild notes swell 

The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea. 

But to what sound her listening ear stoops she ? 
What nether- world gulf- whispers doth she hear 
In answering echoes from what planisphere, 

Along the wind, along the estuary ? 

She sinks into her spell ; and when full soon 
Her lips move and she soars unto her song, 
What creatures of the midmost main shall throng 

In furrowed surf-clouds to the summoning rune ; 
Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry, 
And up her rock, bare-breasted, comes to die ! 

One of the most famous, as well as one of 
the most charming, pictures in the galleries 
of Europe is the portrait of the Countess 
Potocka in the Berlin Gallery. To high 
workmanship is added an extreme charm 
possessed by few, if any, paintings of equal 
merit. For a century the name of the artist 
has rested in obscurity, although it has been 
generally attributed to Angelica Kauffmann. 
This supposition, however, rests upon a very 
slender basis. Count Potocka, so the stQry 
goes, was once deeply infatuated by the 
charms of the fair yet gifted painter. What 
more natural, therefore, than that she should 
paint the portrait of the lady who ultimately 
became his wife ? 

Vol. xxxuL — 17. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Scarlet Runner. 

By C N. and A. M. Williamson. 

Au'kors of " The Lightning Conductor," " My Friend the Chauffeur," etc. 

up Scarlet Runner before the 
door of the new Athenaeum 
Restaurant, and beckoned a 
tall porter, in dark green and 
gold lace, to take a note which 
he held up. But as the liveried giant would 
have obeyed, with a dignified regard for his 
own importance, another motor drew up in 
front of Christopher's. It contained two 
ladies, and as one was getting out the porter's 
services were due. Christopher resigned 
himself to wait until good-byes were said, a 
kiss given and taken, a forgotten word spoken 
at the instant of descent, and as he waited 
he was conscious that two men, who were 
talking in the doorway, discussed him — or 
his car. 

One of the men he knew slightly as a 
crony of his rich uncle's. The other, who 
was young, exceedingly well dressed, and so 
good-looking as to be almost picturesque, 
had pale olive features which seemed vaguely 
familiar to Christopher. Probably the elderly 
major was explaining Scarlet Runner and 
Scarlet Runner's owner— from the uncle's 
point of view. At least, this was the idea 
which jumped into Christopher's mind, and 
kindled a flash of amusement mingled with 
a little sulphurous smoke of annoyance. But 
just then the lady who was leaving the motor 
in front of his contrived to disengage her- 
self from her importunate hostess, and 
Christopher saw her face. It was so striking 
that for a few seconds he forgot that he was 
being discussed, forgot that he was stiffly and 
mechanically holding up a letter. Chris- 
topher Race had always an eye for a beautiful 

This one was beautiful ; but it was not 
only her beauty which Christopher found 
arresting, nor was it in the very least the fact 
that she was perfectly dressed, though he 
knew the difference between a woman who 
was well dressed and one who was not. 

" That girl can't be more than twenty-four, 
if she's that ; yet the whole history of the 
world seems looking out of her eyes — any- 
how, all the art, and music, and drama of 
the world," was the curious thought that 
tumbled awkwardly into his head. 

It was curious, yet there was something of 
truth in it. Christopher, who could be 

Copyright. 1907. by C. N 

imaginative and impressionable — especially 
when he was hungry or a little tired — had a 
feeling that here was the type which had 
inspired artists and musicians and lovers — if 
lovers, then also soldiers — since civilization 
seethed out of chaos. She was the kind of 
woman who ought always to have a soft leit- 
motiv playing as she moved upon the scene 
— like a heroine of melodrama. Y r es, she 
was distinctly the heroine. Wherever she 
appeared, things would begin to happen. 

"Yes, sir; you called me, I think, sir?" 

It was the voice of the green and gold 
porter. He had handed the lady out of the 
motor-car ; the motor-car was gliding away ; 
the lady was bowing to her friend ; the major 
was shaking hands with the picturesque 
young man. In another moment there would 
be " How do you do's " to say, and, " Is it 
long since you heard from your uncle ? " 

" Oh — er — yes," Christopher answered 
the giant, briskly. He thought that he 
would not be sorry to escape a broadside 
from the retired officer. " I want to leave 
this letter for Lord Arrowdale. He's to 
lunch here, I believe, and will be inquiring 
for a letter." 

" Very good, sir," said the porter, and 
took the envelope. But he was not quick 
enough to save Christopher from the major, 
who came forward and said all the things 
that Christopher had known he would say 
— given the chance. The young man 
answered civilly, and even explained with- 
out petulance his mention of Lord Arrow- 
dale's name, which the elderly gossip had 
caught. " No, I don't know him ; never 
met him in my life. A friend wanted him 
to try my car. Promised to leave a note 
here making an ap[>ointment." 

As he talked on, from the tail of his eye 
he watched the progress of the lady. She 
had been met in the doorway by the pic* 
turesque young man, and they were speaking 
together now with a kind of suppressed 
eagerness. If it had not seemed too ridi- 
culously conceited to fancy such a thing, 
Christopher would have had the idea that 
he was the subject of their conversation. 

" Well, ta, ta. Next time I write old 
Jamey I'll tell him his nephew's looking 
prosperous,'' said the major, and sidled off 
without a backward glance. As he did 

and AJWl. WiiliafflfnJOl 



sq, before Christopher could 
guide Scarlet Runner away, the 
picturesque young man had left 
the girl standing in the door and 
hurried forward. 

" I beg your pardon, but may 
1 speak to you ? n he exclaimed. 

Christopher paused, a foot 
on the clutch pedal. Another 
car lurked ready for Scarlet 
Runner's place, or must slip in 

" What I want is to ask if you 
will lunch with us," the stranger 
rushed on, by way of holding the 
motorist's attention. 

"Lunch with you?" echoed 
Christopher, astonished. " Vou 
mistake me for someone 
else ■ 

14 No, no,' 1 said the other, 
" Major Norburn has told me 
everything. You like adven- 
tures ? You are invited to 
arrange one.' 1 

That caught Christopher, as it 
was meant to, ''Very well, I'm 
with you/' said he. And per- 
haps he thought of the lady, 
hoping to be with her as welL 
"I'll get out of the way here, 
drive my car to the garage close 
by, and come back," 

"Without fail?" 

" Without fail." 

Five minutes later Christopher returned, 
walking so rapidly round the corner that 
he took his host and hostess unawares. 
They were still standing in the wide door- 
way of the fashionable new restaurant, and 
had not expected him back so soon, for 
they were deep in conversation. The young 
man appeared to be urging something upon 
the girl with great earnestness, while she 
shook her head, refusing to be convinced. 
As Christopher drew nearer, hesitating to 
intrude upon the pair, so intent upon each 
other, she shrugged her shoulders and threw 
out her hands slightly, as if yielding the 
point at last "Oh, very welt, I promise," 
Christopher heard her say; "if it must be, 
it must." 

Her voice was American, soft and sweet, 
with the oddly childish intonations of the 
Southern girl. Yet Christopher had thought 
that she looked French, or Spanish perhaps, 
and the delicate chiselling of her features 
had reminded him of early portraits of the 
Empress Eugenie in her days of girlish beauty. 


It was only as Christopher came close 
upon them that she looked up and saw him, 
with a start of surprise, evidently not wholly 
agreeable, though she half-smiled, civilly. 
The start warned her companion, and he 
turned to welcome his guest with an impul- 
sive air which was rather engaging. Yo, 
certainly, he was extremely good-looking, 
Christopher would barely have guessed it 
possible for an Englishman to be so 
picturesque in ordinary frock coat and silk 
hat ; yet this man was English. " You'll think 
I'm mad," he said, smiling. " But even that's 
better than 10 be commonplace, isnt it ? w 

" Assuredly/ 1 said Christopher. 

"I thought you'd be of that opinion, Mr. 
Race. 1 ' 

" You know my name ? " 

" From Major Norburn. Even the name 
of your splendid car. It's the same as an 
introduction. And now I will introduce you 
to Miss Dauvray. Then 111 introduce my- 
self My name is Punsonby Fir/gt i rald ; and 
if someone else were introducing me, he'd 
probably t^Lvou^h^r 1 don't do anything in 

the m«M#%Mte-N 



Fonsonby Fitzgerald I The young man's 
handsome face and figure appeared upon its 
own background now. He had written a 
queer novel, which made a sensation on the 
strength of its queerness ; and out of the 
novel he had woven a play which owed its 
success to the sarin/ quality. People knew 
him and talked of him still, though he had 
not since written another novel or another 
play. There were things about him in the 
papers sometimes. He went to country 
houses, and was said to be entertaining. 
Christopher knew now that be had seen the 
pale olive face bowing and smiling in 
response to a call for " Author ! " on the first 
night of the queer play, three or four years 
ago— in the palmy days when Christopher 
always went to first nights, generally took 
stage boxes, and gave suppers afterwards. 

** VVeVe in a dilemma, Miss Dauvrayand 
I," Fitzgerald went on, " and we want you to 
help us out of it" 

The girl raised her long, beautifully-pen- 
cilled eyebrows. They seemed to say, " 0h> 
please count me out of this. It is your 
affair j I am passive," And yet Miss Dauvray 
did not look like one who took life passively. 


There were curious depths in her eyes, 
capable of tragedy, which interested Chris- 
topher, And his interest made him enter 
the more readily into the spirit of the adven- 
ture — comedy or drama, or whatever it might 
turn out to be, 

14 Help you ? " he repeated, smiling. "To 
the half of my kingdom ! " 

11 Or the whole of your motor-car ? * 
"That is my kingdom/ 1 retorted Chris- 
topher, But he was faintly disappointed as 
he realized that, after all, he had merely 
captured a client 

They went in to luncheon* Mr. Fitzgerald 
had engaged a table which was laid with two 
covers, but in an instant it was rearranged 
for three. "And now for business," exclaimed 
Fitzgerald, in his lively, enthusiastic way, 
which made him seem very boyish, though 
his years might have been twenty- nine or 
thirty. " Miss Dauvrayand I have an impor- 
tant job on for the ist of April, and we're 
going to propose that you shall be the l Co/ 
in our partnership," 

The Southern girl neither assented nor 
protested, though Fitzgerald challenged her 
with his great, daring black eyes. She 
trifled with a bunch of violets 
beside her plate, her lovely face 
unsmiling. It occurred to Chris- 
topher that she had scarcely 
spoken at all, yet to him, at least, 
she dominated the scene. It was 
like being in a play, he thought, 
where everybody spoke except the 
heroine, and thus emphasised 
her muteness, He guessed she 
was displeased that Fit/ge raid's 
impulsive indiscretion had dragged 
a stranger into their friendly con- 
fidences, for no matter what reason, 
and he felt uncomfortable and 

" I'm to be a sleeping pan 
ner? ;j asked Christopher, wish- 
ing himself elsewhere, though his 
interest was entangled* 

" On the contrary, you're to be 
very wide awake. But I'll tell 
you all about it, Of course you've 
heard of the Van Bouten ball 
next week ? !> 

Of course Christopher had, and 
said so. For the past fortnight 
the papers had mined paragraphs 
about the Van Bouten ball. It 
was to be a masked ball, and was 
planned to rival in magnificence 
the iiisioric affair at Devonshire 

VltNT ON. 




House in Diamond Jubilee year. Miss 

Van Bouten, a patent yeast heiress, was as 

renowned for her beauty as for her millions. 

She and a carefully-selected aunt had taken 

and restored a fine old abbey of Henry VII.'s 

day, conveniently near London, A year ago 

the young heiress had been presented and 

captured society ; also she had captured, or 

was on the point of capturing, the Marquess 

of Arrowdale- Now she and the aunt were 

giving this ball, at which, it was said, after 

the unmasking, her engagement to Lord 

Arrowdale would perhaps be announced. 

Nowadays Christopher Race did not take 
so keen a personal interest in social matters 
as he had when his position as his uncle's 
heir was thought to be assured, and he had 
nothing better to do than to amuse himself. 
Now he was very busy trying to win back his 
uncles respect and — incidentally — his own 
self-respect. Still, he knew all about the ball, 
and had read the paragraphs with a certain 
interest, because it was on the cards that he 
might be engaged by Lord Arrowdale to 
motor a party of people from town to St. 
Ronan's Mount. 

** We have a scheme for the night of the 
ball which will be the sensation of the 
century, if we can only carry it out," Fitz- 
gerald went on. "It falls on April 1st, you 
know. But that gives you no hint of our 
brilliant idea — though it did give us our 
inspiration. We had reason to believe, up to 
last night, that the plan was in the best work- 
ing order ; but — the schemes of mice and 
men ! One of our best mice suddenly failed 
us— influenza or something obvious. The 
wheels wouldn't go round without him — 
literally ; because he's a motorist. I was up- 
set ; but I reflected, l When in doubt, always 
consult an American girl, 1 so I called Miss 
Dauvray into consultation. * No chaperon/ 
I said ; and, having the courage of her con- 
victions, she consented to a lunch at the 
ultra-respectable Athenaeum. While I waited 
for her I saw you — and your car. 4 What a 
beauty!' I said to myself. (Don't blush ; I 
mean the car.) ' Now, if only we had a 
motor like that to do our trick ! ' 

"Just then came along Major Norburn. 
In six words he told me your car's history. 
Your audacity and originality captivated my 
imagination on the instant. I felt you were 
the man for us, if we could secure you. And I 
lost no time in trying to secure you, did I ? " 
Christopher laughed responsively. The 
man's gaiety was contagious, and he had 
that illusive quality, magnetism, which draws 

"Have I secured you ? " he dashed on, 

" I must hear the scheme before pledging 
myself," smiled Christopher. 

" Unfortunately, that's just what you can't 
do. You see, it's to be a great joke. We trust 
you, of course ; one knows one's man 
instantly in some cases. But still — well, 
we're pledged not to let out the secret to any- 
one unless he is first enlisted as one of us. 
This much I can say, though. We want you 
to take us — Miss Dauvray, myself, and 
several friends — to St. Ronan's Mount for 
the ball in your ripping motor-car. We don't 
mean to stay late ; in fact, we can promise 
that you'll be back in town before most of 
the guests have stopped dancing. Now, what 
do you say, when, in addition to ' short 
hours,' you'll be in for a splendid adventure 
— just the sort of thing to appeal to you ?" 

" It's rather odd," said Christopher, " but 
my errand here this morning was to leave a 
note for Lord Arrowdale, making an appoint- 
ment for a talk about motoring a party of his 
friends to St. Ronan's for the ball." 

Miss Dauvray looked up suddenly, and 
was nobly beautiful with the ivory curve of 
her cheeks stained a deep rose-colour. Still 
she did not speak. She was supposed to be 
eating plovers' eggs, but she had not shown 
much appreciation of them, considering the 
amount they would probably add lo Mr. 
Fitzgerald's bill. Christopher had always 
understood that American girls were spark- 
lingly fluent in conversation. This lovely, 
dramatic-looking creature appeared to be an 
exception to the rule, however ; or was it 
only by way of marking her disapproval of 
the stranger ? 

Christopher was glad when she looked up. 
It gave him his first real chance to see what 
her eyes were like. No ; it was not necessary 
for a woman with such eyes to say much with 
her lips. Still, what did the eyes say ? Some- 
thing, very expressively, very ardently — but 
what ? Was she pleased to hear that there 
was a chance of his being engaged to take 
another party to the ball ? Why did she 
flush when he mentioned an appointment 
with Lord Arrowdale ? 

"Is Lord Arrowdale lunching here?" 
inquired Fitzgerald, glancing about. 

"At half-past two, I believe — so said the 
friend who asked me, by Lord Arrowdale's 
request, to leave a note for him here. It's 
not yet half-past one. But even if he were 
here I shouldn't know it, for I've never seen 
him. My friend recommended me and my 
car, as Lord Arrowdale's biggest one has had 




a bad accident, and he'd promised it to friends 
whom he didn't want to disappoint. So it's 
not for him exactly, I fancy he's to be a 
member of the house-party at St. RonanV 

"Yes ; he is- I know htm slightly- So 
also does Miss Dauvray. He's never seen 
vou ? " 

" Never-" 

" Well, then, as you're strangers to each 
other, and you and I have knowtf each other, 
man and boy, for at least half ah hour, I do 
think you might give me the preference over 
Arrowdale, You aren't pledged to him in any 
way yet ? " 

11 No," Christopher admitted. 

"When you keep that appointment couldn't 
you tell him you are engaged, but could 
recommend him some ordinary chauffeur 
with a fine car, which would suit his purpose 
just as well ? " 

"What if I recommended such a chauffeur 
and such a car to you ? n 

"Ah, but an ordinary chauffeur wouldn't 
suit our purpose at all. We must have a 
gentleman. Mr. Race, we want you — don't 
we, Miss Dauvray?" 

He appealed to her with an insistent 
eagerness. His eyes seemed almost to flash 
light to hers across the little flower-decorated 

" Yes," she said, softly, Christopher 
noticed now that she was looking tired, 
Her eyes were gentle and sad, and oddly 
wistful, as she turned them to his in support 
of her one word. It was as if she appealed 
to him. But— did she want him to consent 
or refuse ? He felt suddenly a passionate 
desire to understand her. The way to do so 
was to see more of her. He would see more 
of her, " In that case/ 1 he said, " I am at 
your orders." 

".It's settled— 
; you Ye one of us! 11 
exclaimed Fitzgerald, 

" Yes," said Chris- 

" Then you shall 
hear the whole thing. 
This is, of course, in 
strictest confidence." 

" Of course." 
J* It would spoil all 
the fun if it got out." 

"Need I assure 
you it won't get out 
through me ? " 

"No, you needn't. 
Well, as you've heard 
all about the ball, you 

know that Milly Van Bouten— or her aunt, 
who poses as hostess— has offered the Scrape 
blue diamond as a prize for the greatest 
sensation of the evening." 

"Meaning the handsomest costume?" 

" Not exactly that, for it can even be won 
by a party. Indeed, I think it will be won 
by my party, Witt! she means Is to give the 
diamond to the person or group of persons 
whose appearance and manner of entrance 
creates 4he greatest sensation. That's the 
sort of offer to excite original invention and 
make talk and excitement, and talk and 
excitement will boom the ball — save it from 
dullness — help it to go down into history is 
the masked ball of the twentieth century. 
That's why she's having it masked ; it can be 
so much more sensational, rouse so much 
more fun and speculation, than even the best 
fancy dress dance." 

" I should have thought it rather risky to 
let masked guests into such a house f and 
among such jewels as are sure to be worn/' 
said Christopher. 

"Of course, that danger was discussed"' 
returned Fitzgerald, "and Mrs. Appieton, 
the aunt, opposed the idea of masks at first, 
but Milly overruled her, as she always does, 
and it was arranged for the general safety 
that a ' society detective ' sort of person should 
see the face of at least one member of each 
party as that party entered. Also, everyone 
must show his card of invitation. You see, 
that gives protection enough, and, besides, 
there are sure to be lots of detectives hover- 
ing about in disguise, watching every door. 
You're not afraid of losing your pearls* are 
you, Miss Dauvray?" 

" Not at all," said the girl, absent-mindedly, 
as if she were thinking of something else. 

i : hrd— 

you pk one 


L* A.hkAl [J, 



"Naturally everybody wants to get that 
diamond, which Milly Van Bouten bought 
at Christie's on purpose to offer in this way. 
Myself, I rather think she hopes Arrowdale 
may get it, as it would please him, and 
then there'd be a chance of its coming 
back to her in the end — though I know 
for a fact that he hasn't proposed yet, 
in spite of all the talk. For my part, 
/ want to get it. I discovered that Miss 
Dauvray had also set her heart on annexing 
it This suggested our putting our heads 
together. Milly got the diamond a bargain, 
and the day after she was offered three times 
what she paid by the American millionaire, 
Jim Scrope- Saunders, who fancies himself to 
be an offshoot of the real Scropes. She 
wouldn't sell it ; what was twelve thousand 
pounds to Milly ? But it's something to us ; 
and if we get the prize, as we shall, our idea 
is to sell to Scrope-Saunders and divide 
among our assistants— the biggest portion for 
ourselves, as is only fair, since we're the 
originators of the idea. There'll be five in it, 
including yourself now, and two men who are 
friends of mine. Whatever happens, you're 
sure of adventure, and whatever you like to 
charge for your car and your services. -#"we 
get the diamond, your share will be five 
hundred pounds. How does that strike 

" As most generous — too generous for me 
to accept," said Christopher. 

"We'll force you to accept. But never 
mind that part now. I told you that a friend 
with a motor had failed us. A motor is 
necessary because, when we've made our sen- 
sation, we must be able to dash away, as up-to- 
date highwaymen should. But, oh, perhaps 
I forgot to mention that we're to be high- 
waymen ? " And he laughed out, boyishly: 

"You did forget that part." Christopher 
laughed too. "And Miss Dauvray" — he 
could not resist bringing her in — " is she to 
be a highway woman ? " 

"She's to be an abbess," Fitzgerald 
answered for the girl, without giving her time 
to speak. " We're all to be monks at first, 
we four men. At the right moment we're to 
throw off our cowls, but she's to remain an 
abbess. She's to be out of it then, except 
that she's coming away with us, lest they 
should tease the secret from her, and 
eventually she's to restore all the stolen 
jewels to their owners." 

"The stolen jewels ! " echoed Christopher, 

"I don't wonder you're growing woolly. I 
never could explain anything lucidly, except 

on paper. I can do it all right there. In 
fact, I'm a nailer at it. But therein lies the 
sensation — our hope of winning the prize. 
Everybody will have racked his and her 
brains for eccentric and magnificent costumes ; 
people will be walking about crusted with 
jewels. We can't rival the millionaires on 
their own ground, but we can make our own 
effect, whicji we warrant will beat theirs — 
and get off the best of jokes on them at 
the same time. We shall w^lk in as Miss 
Dauvray's party ; she will be responsible for 
the four of us ; she will lift her veil and show 
her face to the man at the door who's taking 
stock of features. She's pretty well known, 
and, besides, she's an old school friend of 
Milly Van Bouten's, and could have been 
included in the house-party if she hadn't 
chosen to help us instead. As I said, 
she'll be an abbess, dressed in the dark 
blue and white of the Sister House which 
used to exist within a stone's throw of 
St. Ronan's Monastery, in the good old days 
before Henry VIII. was King. We'll be 
in the St. Ronan garb, of course, which will 
at once excite interest, as there's a terrible 
ghost story still extant at St. Ronan's, which 
concerns four monks who were found walled 
up in the oldest part of the house, when a 
room was added, and who haunt the place 
to this day — usually accompanied, for some 
reason, by the figure of an abbess from the 
Sister House, who weeps and sobs and 
wrings her hands." 

Miss Dauvray shivered faintly, and said 
the words over again in her low, vibrant 
voice, as if they had impressed her fancy 
grimly : " Weeps and sobs and wrings her 
hands'' But Fitzgerald hurried on, and did 
not seem to hear the murmured repetition. 

" Then, when we've made our effect," said 
he, gaily, " we suddenly throw off our 
monkish robes and appear as masked, top-' 
booted, belted highwaymen from the Wild 
West of America. We shall be bristling with 
bowie knives and big revolvers (not really 
loaded, of course), and while two of us — you, 
perhaps, and one other — guard the exits, the 
other two will hold up the crowd and make 
'em hand over their valuables in the most 
realistic manner." 

"Won't it rather frighten timid womeni?" 
Christopher ventured to protest. 

" There are no timid women in these days 
— anyhow, not in our set. All that ' went 
out ' as long ago as the seventies, I should 
say. Besides, nobody will be frightened that 
night at anything that anybody else does. 
Eccentricity will Be the order of the evening. 




People will give us their things like birds ; 
theyll expect us to shuffle them up like 
numbers in a hat, and offer them round 
again, or something of the sort But this is 
where the real surprise comes in. We won't 
do anything so tame." 

41 What will you do?" 

" We'll make off with the whole boodle 
as fast as we can in your motor-car." 

** By Jove ! " said Christopher, looking 

" Ha, ha ! If you don't understand, pre- 
pared as you are, how much less will they ? 
It will be the great April fool trick "of the 

** For you. But wont it spoil Miss Van 
Somen's ball?" 

" Make a guess as to what we mean to do 

" I swear Tm in the dark." 

" All this will happen just before supper. 
There's to be a grand sit-down supper, and 
unmasking. People will be in the most 
awful quandary. By that time they won't 
know whether they've been the victims of a 
grand joke or whether they've been robbed 
of their little all ; but— theyll go in to 
supper, except the poor detectives, who'll 
be scurrying round like mice for news of 
the mysterious motor. Then will appear a 
great dish — a pie, with a wonderful cover, 
It will be set down by a servant (he'll be 
in our pay ; not Miss Van Bouten's, by the 
by) on the principal table, with a request 
for Miss Van Bouten herself to cut it. She 
will do so ; and in that pie will be all the 
stolen jewels, with our visiting-cards on top, 
and a sort of 
round robin claim- 
ing the prize for 
our selves. Your 
name needn't be 
there unless you 
like, as you don't 
know Miss Van 
Bouten and aren't 
one of her invited 
guests ; but you'll 
get your share all 
the same. Every- 
one will vote us 
the prize — or be 
voted without a 
sense of humour. 
Now, there's an 
adventure for you, 
rie$f-ce f>as ? " 

11 It's a regular 
boy -and -girl ad- 

venture — nothing grown-up about it," said 
Christopher* surprised and amused at the 
childishness of the "great game." 

"That's the charm/' retorted Fitzgerald ; 
and Christopher admitted that perhaps he 
was right 

In any event, he was committed to the 
affair now, and he was so eager to find out 
whether the beautiful Miss Dauvray were 
bored with it all, or vexed with him for being 
in it, that he would not have backed out even 
if he could. When they had finished luncheon 
— and it was only a quarter- past two — he 
volunteered to scribble another note to await 
Lord Arrowdale's coming. In it he said that, 
since writing the first, he had been obliged 
to change his plans— that it would not be 
worth while to make the proposed appoint- 
ment, as he could not conduct Ixjrd Arrow- 
dale's friends to St. Ronan's Mount ; but he 
would recommend a good chauffeur with a 
good car. And thereupon he added name 
and address, 

This little matter was finished in five 
minutes, and then the ever-impulsive and 
restless Fitzgerald hurried him off to the 
garage for a "good look 1 ' at Scarlet Runner, 
Miss Dauvray having bidden them both 
farewell from the window of a hansom cab. 
Thus all three w T ere away before I.ord Arrow- 
dale appeared upon the scene. 

Fitzgerald was very flattering to Scarlet 
Runner, but regretfully refused a run in her. 
He had an engagement, he said, with an 
actor-manager at a theatre in the neighbour- 
hood, to talk in the man's dressing-room 
between acts of a matin fa performance. But 






it was arranged before he and Christopher 
parted that Race should call upon him at his 
rooms next evening and get his costume and 
all necessary instructions. 

" Is it worth while for me to have a cos- 
tume ? " asked Christopher, at the last. 
" It's different with me from the rest of you, 
who'll know everybody at the ball. I'm not 
even invited, and should feel rather out of 
the joke, saying * Your money or your life ! ' 
to fat old ladies I didn't know from Eve." 

"Choose young ones, then, whom you'd 
like to know," laughed Fitzgerald. " Oh, 
you must go in with us. You see, we 
couldn't do with less than four desperadoes. 
He shall have to be a formidable band and 
guard the doors and all that sort of realistic 
business, or there'll be no fun. You aren't 
going to back out, are you ? " 

Christopher assured him that if his services 
as a highwayman as well as a chauffeur were 
actually needed he would give them — he 
might be counted upon. And then he and 
Ponsonby Fitzgerald went their separate 

When Christopher had driven Scarlet 
Runner home to her own garage (after a 
short spin for the purpose of composing his 
mind) he went round to his club, where he 
seldom had time to show himself now. 

It was a club frequented by men of Upper 
Bohemia rather than of Mayfair ;" but it had 
a few young members who combined litera- 
ture or some artistic pursuit with the life of 
society, and one of these Christopher asked 
casually if he had ever met a Miss Dauvray. 

"What, Miss Eloise Dauvray, of New 
Orleans ? " was the quick question in return. 
" Beautiful, slender creature, chestnut hair 
and corking grey eyes ? " 

When Christopher had accepted this 
description, information concerning Miss 
Dauvray came volubly out. It really was 
odd that he had never met her before. In 
her way she was a kind of celebrity — had 
been a celebrity in New York before becom- 
ing one in London a couple of years ago. 
What sort of celebrity ? Why, a beauty, of 
course, and something of a wit when she 
chose. She was a cousin of the Duchess of 
Maidenhead, and was tremendously smart, 
though a bit — well, emancipated ; went 
about alone sometimes, and did odd, 
origiual things that might make other girls 
talked about But nobody said anything 
particularly horrid of her, except that she 
was most awfully unlucky at bridge and 
played rather too high for a girl. Who 
chaperoned her ? Oh, a deaf old thing with 

Vol. xxxiiL— 18. 

gorgeous white hair — grandmother or some- 
thing ; came of old family ; proud of it ; 
liked England better than America ; too 
rheumatic to run about with the grand- 
daughter, visiting at country houses. Girl 
generally went with friends ; everyone ad- 
mired her, and she hadn't lost her popularity 
when she lost her expectations of a pot of 
money she ought to have got. Some relative 
or other promised it, then went and died 
without a will — so inconsiderate ! But the 
girl must have something ; she was always 
beautifully dressed and never seemed dis- 
gustingly hard up. That pretty Milly Van 
Bouten was no end of nuts on her, though 
everybody, thought that Miss Dauvray had 
been trying for Arrowdale before Milly came 
over from the other side and swept him off 
the board. 

I^ter, Christopher questioned his well- 
informed acquaintance about Ponsonby Fitz- 
gerald, and heard just what he expected to 
hear— that the young man was immensely 
popular, though no one quite knew why, 
except that he was better-looking than most 

" I suppose there's a glamour about him 
still from that book and play of his," the 
young man went on, " though he's never 
brought anything big off since. Has written 
things, but they fell flat. He, too, used to be 
a great friend of Miss Van Bouten's." 

" Isn't he now ? " asked Christopher. 

" Oh, perhaps ; I can't say. A chap I 
know told me that he went for her for all he 
was worth when she was making her first 
success in society ; but apparently he didnt 
bring that off, anymore than the second play, 
or the books." 

Christopher smiled at his own thoughts. 
Miss Dauvray was said to have "wanted" 
Lord Arrowdale, Ponsonby Fitzgerald to have " 
" tried for " Miss Van Bouten — and both in 
vain, since Miss Van Bouten and Lord 
Arrowdale were probably going to be married. 
It was rather comic — or tragic ; he wasn't 
quite sure yet which. But no wonder the 
two disappointed ones came together in their 
wish to obtain something from that firm — if 
it were only a blue diamond. 

There were four days and nights still before 
the 1 st of April, the occasion of the Van 
Bouten ball ; but lest any alterations 
should be necessary in the costume to 
which he had fallen heir, Christopher was 
asked to call on Fitzgerald the evening 
after the making of their queer partnership. 
Fitzgerald had pleasant rooms in Half 
Moon Street, delightfully though simply 




decorated, and crowded with photographs of 
charming women of society and of the stage. 
There were good books, too ; and a piano at 
which Fitzgerald was playing and singing 
deliciously when Christopher was announced. 
Altogether Christopher was as favourably 
impressed with the man's surroundings as 
with the man himself. 

The monk's robe and the highwayman's 
costume were both produced, and the latter 
tried on. Christopher rather fancied himself 
in it. He was to wear it, bowie knives and 
pistols and all, under his chauffeur's coat, 
throw off the coat in the car (which must not 
be put up in the garage, but left at a certain 
place that Fitzgerald knew), and don the 
monk's robe and cowl over mask and soft 
felt hat. The whole party was to assemble 
at the house where Miss Dauvray lived in 
Regent's Park, and Christopher was to pick 
them up there with Scarlet Runner at nine 
o'clock on the great night. It was he who 
named the hour, calculating that, even allow- 
ing for a burst tyre, he would thus have plenty 
of time to reach St. Ronan's Mount well 
before eleven, the time arranged for the coup 
in the ball-room. 

It was curious how often Christopher 
thought of Miss Dauvray between the day of 
their first meeting and the night of the ball. 
He was not falling in love with her. Indeed, 
he could not decently have done so, as it was 
not yet a month since he had vowed himself 
in love with another girl not less beautiful. 
But as, without speaking, she had dominated 
the scene at the Athenaeum, she dominated 
Christopher's mind, though out of his sight. 
He found himself continually wondering 
about her, and he even dreamed of her at 
night once or twice. It was as if she were 
calling him from a distance, and he could 
not hear what she said. 

When the great night came Christopher could 
have laughed at himself for the boyish excite- 
ment which ran through his veins. He was 
thoroughly in the spirit of the adventure at 
last — as thoroughly as Fitzgerald. As he was 
putting on his belt, and sticking it full of 
weapons effective in appearance but theatrical 
in nature, he remembered that not all the 
details of the grand joke had been made clear 
to him. It had not yet been mentioned where 
he must stop the car, after the coup had been 
accomplished, to allow of the collected jewels 
being carried back. He did not know who 
vas to be the welcome bearer of the wondrous 
pie, nor had he been told anything about the 
other two male partners in the undertaking. 
But these things were details. 

i. In only 


of them had he an active concern, and he 
would doubtless learn all about that in plenty 
of time. 

He arrived early at the rendezvous, but 
not early enough to be the first on the scene. 
There w f as a garden, with rather a high wall, 
and as Scarlet Runner teuf-teufed round the 
corner of the quiet street the gate opened 
and Fitzgerald looked out from under a dim, 
hanging light. Stopping the car, Christopher 
saw that there were two other men with him. 
both already wearing motor goggles, which 
disguised them enough even for an appearance 
at the masked ball. 

" We've all been dining here," said Fitz- 
gerald, "and are so impatient to be off we've 
been ready for the last ten minutes. Mrs. 
Dauvray, our friend's grandmother, can't bear 
the smell of smoke, so we've had a cigarette 
apiece in the garden, expecting you. I'll call 
Miss Dauvray. Oh, here she comes now. 
She must have heard the car." 

The opening door threw out a stream of 
light, and the cloaked figure of a tall girl 
appeared, attended by a maid. Miss 
Dauvray had covered her face with a thick 
chiffon veil as a protection against wind 
(there was no dust), but under the hanging 
lamp at the gate he caught a gleam of eyes 
that searched for his. 

Fitzgerald would have helped her into the 
tonneau of the car, but somehow she slipped 
past him, and Christopher had an odd yet 
strong conviction that she wished him to put 
her in. Without an instant's hesitation he 
held out his arm as a support for her hand, 
and she laid her fingers lightly upon it. Ai 
the same time, with her other hand, hidden 
under a loose cloak, she thrust something as 
far as she could up the young man's sleeve. 

It was a thing that felt large and singularly 
cold, but, surprised as he was at the girl's 
act, Christopher kept his countenance per- 
fectly. By a movement of his wrist he held 
the thing — whatever it was — well concealed 
and prevented it from slipping down. Fitz 
gerald, suspecting nothing, introduced " Mr. 
Rawdon ; Mr. McCIellan," and suggested 
to his two friends the honour of sharing the 
tonneau with Miss Dauvray. " I'll sit with 
you in front," he said : and Christopher 
agreed, making a feint of trying to start the 
car in vain. 

This was an injustice to Scarlet Runner, 
but he must find some excuse for a look at 
the thing which lay cold against his arm- 
" I'll just take a peep under her bonnet and 
make sure that everything's as it ought to bt 
before we g«M off/' he said ; and then, with 





Fitzgerald safely in his seat, and the 
bonnet as a screen, he contrived to slide out 
of his sleeve a Smith and Wesson revolver. 
A folded bit of white paper was kept in place 
on the barrel by means of an innocent little 
fed rubber hand As he slipped the revolver 
from his hand into a deep pocket of his 
motor-coat Christopher pulled off and un- 
folded the paper. On one side a few words 
were written, which he absorbed in a second 
in the eye of Scarlet Runner's blazing lamp. 

"To use instead of your unloaded one, 
in case anything should go turfing* were the 
instructions flashed into his mind before 
he crumpled up the paper into a ball and 
dropped it into his pocket after the revolver. 

"In case anyLhing should go wrong." 
What could she mean ? What could possibly 
go wrong which would excuse his substi- 
tuting a loaded revolver for the harmless toy 
he had in his belt ? There was little time to 
think, as Ponsonby Fitzgerald at his side kept 
up a running fire of chaff, and there would 
lie no chance to ask questions. If Miss 
liauvray had hoped for any later opportunity 
to communicate her secret ideas to him she 
would have said so in her note. He might 
take it that this was her final word, and he 
must trust to luck and his own wit to find 
tht; clue* 

Had she been an ordinary, laughing, 
chattering girl he might have taken her mys- 
terious gift for a part of the joke or a new 
" April fool ' T game, but he knew, whatever 
it meant, it did not mean that. And as he 

drove on through the 
spring night he was 
spurred more and 
more by a mingling 
of vanity and chivalry 
to try and understand 
— to do, when the 
time came, the thing 
that Eloise Dauvray 
believed him the man 
to do, 

St* Ronan's Mount 
— a tk mount M only in 
name — lies near the 
Thames and not far 
from Cliveden, and 
C h ristopher h ad 
allowed him self 
nearly twice the time 
he would actually 
need to drive there. 
This was because 
Fitzgerald's trick 
would be spoiled if 
any accident should delay them until the 
unmasking, and, besides, once inside the St. 
Ronan grounds the party would need a little 
leisure to get themselves in order for the coup. 
Fitzgerald had sketched for Christopher a 
plan of the ball-room and the hall through 
which the guests must pass to reach it He 
had studied this at Fitzgerald's rooms, and 
knew exactly what was expected of him ; but 
now, as Scarlet Runner brought them swiftly 
near the place, Fitzgerald repeated each detail 
of the programme. 

Having passed through the entrance gates, 
the car was to bear to the right, instead of to 
the left, in the direction of the front door 
It was to be driven along an avenue which 
circled round beneath the ball-room windows, 
and stopped under a big glass door at the end 
of the room, This door would be curtained 
and, no doubt, fastened, but the key would 
be in the lock ■ and after the trick had been 
played , the four "highwaymen," accompanied 
by the fair abbess, were to escape through 
this door, run down a short flight of stone 
steps, and find themselves close to their 
waiting motor-car. Then they were to be 
off before the astonished guests could 
follow or give an alarm ; and, Ponsonby 
added, they would "scorch on" for a bit 
before being signalled by the "pastrycook," 
who would take back any stolen valuables 
they had secured. 

" Not a real pastrycook ? " ventured 
Christopher, laughing, but secretly curious as 
to this part of the programme, 




u Ha, ha ! " responded Fitzgerald, boyishly. 
u A real pastrycook ? As much a real pastry- 
cook as we're real highwaymen. All the 
same, that pie of his will be a 'dish to set 
before a king,' if our * haul ' is only half as 
good as I expect it will br." 

Christopher asked no more questions. 
After all, he w r as but a hired understudy, and 
had no right to go beyond his part, sticking 
ll finger of curiosity into that pie which 
would he Fitzgerald's crowning triumph. 

The three in the tonneau were as silent as 
if they were on their way to a funeral instead 
of to a ball Christopher did not hear them 
once speak to each other, but, if they were 
nervous or apprehensive of missing the prize, 
Fitzgerald was merry enough for all five. 
He was in the best of spirits, and made 
Christopher laugh often, never giving him 
time to think. 

The young 
moon had gone 
to sleep long 
ago when Scar- 
let Runner 
through the 
open gates at 
St* Ronan's 
Mount, past 
the smiling 
lodge - keeper ; 
and a thin, 
milky haze 
veiled the stars. 
With so much 
time to spare, 
they had not 
travelled fast, 
and a distant 
church clock 
told them, as 
they spun 
round the 
drive, that they 
had arrived at 
a quarter be 
fore eleven. 
The music of 
the White 
Hungarians in 
the ball - room 
drowned the 
thrumming of 

the motor, and it was as if Scarlet Runner 
made no sound as she ran under the ball- 
room windows and turned a corner, 

"We're here at exactly the right time," 
said Fitzgerald, '* Every soul hut ourselves 

Digitized by Ct< 

. . 


has come and is in the ball-room. We shall 
make our sensation ! Now, Mr, Race, can 
you turn your car round, ready to get away 
on the instant ? That's it There's our door, 
you see, through which we have to make our 
dash when we come out, laden with spoils. 
The light looks pretty, coming through tho&e 
gold-coloured curtains. Now to get oul of 
our motor-coats and into our monks" robes,' 

Five minutes later a procession of five dark 
figures was flitting on foot round a short cut 
to the front door They were admitted by 
footmen, and in the oak-lined vestibule a 
civil gentleman in evening dress asked to see 
their invitation card". 

" I have one for myself and party of four 
friends/' said Miss Dauvray, lilting for an 
instant, as required, her abbess's veil, and 
also showing an illuminated square of paste- 

So Fitzgerald 
had had no 
separate in vita 
tion ! was the 
thought which 
slipped into 
mind, as they 
were allowed 
to pass on with 
out question. 
Well, what of 
that? . . . But 
what of Miss 
Dauvrays gift, 
which he wore 
in his belt 
now ? He had 
had no inspira- 
tion yet. He 
was no nearer 
guessing than 
at first what 
she had meant 
him to do with 

The last 
guests were 
ushered into a 
fine hall, where 
the two hos- 
tesses had 
stood to receive 
their friends 
earlier in the evening. Now they had gone 
into the bait-room, and the hall was empty. 

"There's the door/' said Fitzgerald- 
" There's only that one, and the glass door 
at the far end, through which we go when 





ail's ready. McClellan, you must keep this 
door. I want Race at the other, as he's 
chauffeur, and should be first out to start 
the car for us. The minute we get in see 
if there's a key in the lock of your door, 
McClellan, and, if there is, turn it and pull it 
out if you can, so that we shall have every- 
body penned before the fun begins. You 
all three remember the signal for throwing 
off our robes ?— when I say ' Pax vobismm * 
to Miss Van Bouten, who'll be Undine, in 
pale green, with showers of diamonds and 
[>earls — as we know for certain, thanks to 
Miss Dauvray/' 

At the sound of her name the girl stopped 
on her way to the door as if to answer. 
But she did not answer. She simply touched 
Christopher's arm with her arm, as if by 
accident, and went on. 

A moment after they were inside the 
ball-room in a blaze of light, Christopher's 
eyes dazzled by a scene of enchantment. 
All the fairies of fairyland and the kings and 
queens of earth since the world began wove 
themselves into jewelled patterns as they 
danced. It was the end of a waltz, and the 
music died as if in reverence for the monkish 
band who entered, the last guests, with the 
last note. 

One monk lingered by the door. The 

other three and the abbess wound through 
the brilliant crowd towards the gold curtains 
at the far end of the room. Christopher 
went on, answering jests that were tossed to 
him as he passed ; and he reached the 
glass door and turned just in time to see 
Fitzgerald accost Undine* She, a charming, 
girlish figure, shook her head and pointed to 
a Louis XIV,, gorgeous as a sun-god. 

" Pax vodistum 1 " cried the discarded 
monk, raising aloft his rosary, And with 
that there were suddenly four highwaymen — 
masked, belted, and slouch hatted — where 
four reverend friars had stood. 

Now was Fitzgerald's great chance, and 
with all that was in him of dramatic talent 
he made the most of it. He had but one 
assistant in the blithe game of holding up 
the company, for McClellan kept one door 
and Race the other ; but Jack Sheppard 
himself could not have cut a braver dash 
than gay Fitzgerald. 

The giggling, excited cries of women and 
the laughter or attempted protests of men 
drowned the music of a new wait/, which 
stopped almost as soon as it had begun* 
Ordered by two tall, masked highwaymen to 
give up their jewels, some people yielded 
lightly to the humour of the jest, while others, 
disliking it, would have slipped from the 

pax vuBiscm : chieu thf. ihscakdkin mo**;, k.\ 

1* no JH^gi^LtKw- 



room had not another masked robber held 
the door. Here and there ran forward a 
conscientious man whom Christopher took 
for a detective, but Undine herself checked 
their zeal. " We must yield to the bold 
highwaymen ! " she cried, unlooping from her 
white neck a triple rope of pearls. Then, 
recognising their hostess's voice (she had 
worn a domino when receiving them), her 
guests laughed more loudly and followed her 
example, free from all lurking fear. Fitz- 
gerald and his masked follower were reaping 
a rich harvest, dropping necklaces, dog- 
collars, bracelets, and tiaras into the big 
leather pouches that hung from their belts. 

There was no longer any thought of resist- 
ance or escape, and from afar off Christopher 
saw McClellan leave his post at the door, 
from which he had doubtless taken the 
precaution to remove the key. In a few 
minutes now the play would be over and 
the actors would be running off the scene. 
Nothing had gone wrong, Christopher was 
saying to himself, when suddenly the blood 
mounted to his head in a wave that, for a 
second, turned him giddy. Had nothing 
gone wrong ? 

What if this were not a joke, but deadly 
earnest ? What if these laughing women 
should never see their jewels again ? By this 
time the contents of those leather pouches 
might be worth two hundred thousand 
pounds. If, under his charming airs of 
bonhomte, Fitzgerald were a rogue — well, 
the game would be well worth the candle for 
a man in financial troubles of any sort. And 
that poor, happy child, the hostess — what a 
humiliation for her if at her house, led on 
by her example, all these people lost their 
dearest treasures ! She would never be 
forgiven— could never live down such a 
calamity. She might even lose her lover 
through it. 

"/// case anything should go wrong! " If 
Miss Dauvray had meant this — meant him to 
guess, meant to give him something by which, 
if his wits were quick and his courage high, 
he could stop the game ! 

Suddenly his head was clear as a bell. If 
he did the thing which had sprung into his 
brain he would not spoil Fitzgerald's chance 
of the prize, in case the play were a genuine 
frolic after all. But if it were earnest he 
might save the situation for Miss Van Bouten, 
save the jewels, and — unless Fitzgerald were 
a fool— no one need ever know the truth. 

He decided to act, and the moment had 

Fitzgerald had finished. He and his 

assistant were beginning their dash towards 
the glass door. But instead of unlocking it, 
as Christopher had been told to do, he tried 
it quickly, found it fastened, and slipped the 
key into his pocket. Then, with his back to 
the gold curtains, he fired one barrel of Eloise 
Dauvray^s revolver at the ceiling. 

This was to let Fitzgerald know that he 
was formidable — that he carried no harmless 
toy at his belt ; and the effect was overpower- 
ing. All the women screamed (he hated 
frightening them, but it was for their own 
good), and even Fitzgerald and his follower 
were taken aback for an instant. 

It was but for an instant, though. Then 
they sprang forward ; but Christopher stopped 
them with his cocked revolver, before they 
could touch the triggers of theirs. 

44 Hands up, or I fire ! " he shouted. 

Their weapons had death in them, too— he 
was sure of that — but his could speak first, and 
if it spoke there would be an end of one man. 
The danger was that he could not be sure of 
covering two at a time, and the third was not 
far off now ; but that was the risk he had 
been ready to run, and on the instant he was 
called upon to face it. From behind Fitz 
gerald the other man would have taken the 
chance and fired, but someone knocked up 
his arm (no one but Christopher saw that it 
was a veiled abbess), and Lord Arrowdale, 
as Louis XIV., alert and grave enough now, 
took advantage of the fellow's brief confusion 
to seize the revolver from behind. 

With that Fitzgerald burst into a loud 
laugh and tucked his weapon in his belt. 
(Was it because he knew the game was up, 
and the only hope lay in saving appearances, 
or was he merely ready to end his harmless 
play for the prize ?) " Don't be frightened, 
anybody, and spoil sport," he cried, his voice 
breaking with laughter. Then, snatching off 
his mask and looking handsome and gallant 
in his slouch hat, he ran and knelt at 
Undine's feet, calling his comrade to follow. 

" Our leather pouches, and all that in them 
is," he exclaimed, " in exchange for the prize, 
fair lady." 

And Miss Van Bouten took off her mask 
also, smiling and beautiful, though a little 

44 Shall he have the prize, my friends ? " she 
cried aloud. 

And the company, unmasking, answered 
with many voices that the prize must belong 
to the highwayman. 

" It's to be put to the vote, you know, at 
supper," she said. 

Fitzgerald and his friend, having given up 






their bags of spoil to their hostess, rose from 
their knees. 

Then Fitzgerald came to where Race still 
stood by the door. Everyone was listen- 
ing, but ail he had to say was to thank 
Christopher for his " dramatic conception of 
his part 1 * 

44 Your one slight mistake," he finished, 
"has proved a blessing in disguise, for it 
enables me also to change my mind at the 
last minute, I and my friends will stay 
to supper and hear our fate— in the matter 
of the blue diamond. You are free to do as 
you choose." 

** I must be getting back to town." 

"With your car? 
Very well ; we will 
meet later" 

Fitzgerald was 
the hero of the 
occasion; and one- 
of the young men 
of Miss Dauvray's 
party presently 
slipped away un- 
noticed. Perhaps 
two others did the 
same — Christo- 
pher did not know. 
Hut when he 
reached Scarlet 
Runner, to his in- 
tense surprise 
there sat Miss 
Dauvray in the 
seat next the 

"Will you take 
me home ? Tt she 

11 With plea- 
sure/' he said. 
M And quickly?" 
"If you wish." 
They started, 
and for a few 
moments neither 
spoke. Then 
Christopher asked, 
" Did I do the 
thing you 
wanted ? n 

" Yes," she said. 
" I thought you 
would do it + J * 

u You hypno- 
tized me, perhaps. 
But — was it a 

game, or- " 

"Oh, a game, if you like. But a terrible 
game. I would have given my life to stop it, 
or— yours. You've saved both, I can live 
now, I think. If he wins the prize he'll let 
me alone for awhile, But if he'd succeeded 
to-night I — couldn't have borne it What 
would there have been for me ? Only to 
disappear, as he meant to do, or — disappear 
in another way, a quieter way. I should have 
chosen that, I'm so very tired, you see." 

" Tired of what? " Christopher questioned 
her, almost fiercely. 

"Of playing cat's paw to him. I'm a 
coward, I'm horribly afraid of him. He 
could ruin ' J M@.' n a F WP ffelped him several 





times— in country houses where Fve been 
staying, It's nearly killed ine, but I had to do 
it. lb is would have been worst of all, though, 
I love little Milly Van Bout en. I bear her 
no grudge for taking Arrowdale from me, 
because I didn't love him. It was only his 
money and title I wanted — meded % if you like. 
Y\\z thought I'd be glad of revenge, but I'm 
not vindictive. I helped only because I 
was forced to*" 


11 Oh, it all began with the most awful 
tosses at bridge* arid a hundred outside debts 
to drive me half 
mad. Once — I 
was mad then, 
1 think-—] 
cheated. Kitz 
saw, and saved 
me, for — - this 
kind of thing. 
He's in awful 
straits, too- But 
the blue dia- 
mond will save 
him, if he gets it. 
For your sake I 
hope he will, as 
well as for mine. 
He doesn't for- 
give easily/' 

"How did he 
mean to rid him- 
self of me to- 
night ? " asked 
C h ri s t opher, 

"You can 
guess, I think. 
Of course, the 
story of the 
pastrycook and 
the pie, and 
giving back the 
jewels, was a 

have had a knock on the head, and Fitt 
would have driven your car where he liked. 
He can drive one or two makes of car, and 
he's been taking lessons with your kind for 
the last three days. But now don't ask me 
any more questions, will you? I'm so tired. 
If you're kind, let me rest." 

Christopher obeyed and sat silent, driving 
last. Neither spoke again until he had 
brought her to her own door, in Regents 

Then, as he stopped Scarlet Runner, he 
broke out : "All this time I've been thinking 

of what vouVe 
said. \—» 

fiction for your 
benefit. But 

you would have been asked to stop your 
car at a certain place, I believe, as \i to 
m ee t the ' pas t ry cook , ' and t b en —4 h e n — 
they wouldn't have killed you, for Fitz was 
going to disappear and you couldn't have 
identified the other man. But you wmiUl 


She burst into 
merry, if nervous, 
laughter. 4l What 
Fve said ? Surtiv 
you didn't take 
all that wild non- 
sense seriously ! 
Of course I was 
joking. It was a 
fair) 1 -story from 
beginning to 
end, believe 

" I can't," said 

11 Then you 
are the April 
fool after all, 
aren't you? But 
thank you, 
nevertheless, a 
thousand times, 
for bringing 
me home. And 
take care — Fit/ 
won't be too 
pleased with you 
for changing 
the end of hi* 

Christopher let 
her slip away from him. Had it been a 
joke, then, the whole thing? He would 
never quite know, it might be. But he bad 
a very strong theory ; and that theory did 
not prevent him from wishing to see Eloise 
Dauvray again. 

by Google 

Original from 

f.- i» .ay 



f>nm» a PAcrftf, fcv jii^prni Ureter, Kensington, 

Bv Princess di Teano. 

HE first thing that strikes one after 
becoming a convert to ballooning 
is the 

is no reason 
before you are 

why you 
on the 

d i nary 
ignorance of every- 
body in general con- 
cerning the sport. 
To begin with, an 
idea firmly rooted 
in the human mind 
is that whichever 
way the wind is 
blowing, and at 
whatever rate, you 
must immediately 
and inevitably be 
carried out to sea 
and drowned ; the 
only p other alter- 
native is that the 
balloon should 
burst in mid* air, 
and that forthwith 
you are landed in 
fragm e n t s on 
Mother Earth, 
There seems no 
middle course avail - 
able- If you arc of 
an argumentative 
turn of mind you 
will point out that 
on a tolerably calm 
and clear day there 

Vol xxxuL— Tfe. 

T\> ASCEND — PKtNCSSS JM TEANU IS I thilt. .IppiV I TllT^ri R 
WHITE VEIL fcOUND HER HAT.''" * Lnjl I I ■_• T 
Ft&mtt rh»tv. by Arg*-nt A*Vi*r t KtwtinvtvH. 

should not descend 
brink of the sea, for 
possessing eyesight 
and maps you can 
scarcely come on it 
unawares, and if 
you start in a gale 
you know what to 
expect and are will- 
ing to risk it. Bal- 
loons do not burst 
through pure con- 
trariness, and only 
a suicidally- inclined 
aeronaut would tie 
up the neck of his 
balloon and thus 
court disaster. If 
you succeed in 
arguing out these 
two points, your 
friends will fall back 
on the minor hor- 
rors of ballooning. 
They will say they 
are bad sailors and 
would certainly be 
ill all the time ; 
besides which they 
suffer from giddi- 
ness, and would no 
doubt jump over- 
board. Of giddt- 

thing, having never 



experienced it, either when ballooning or 
otherwise ; but as to seasickness I can 
speak with assurance, for if anybody was 
likely to feel it in a balloon I should be 
the first sufferer. No 3 it is all comfort 
and peace and perfect rest. Kruni the 
moment that the signal * l Hands off!" is 
given and you have cleared the roofs of the 
adjoining houses you may settle down among 
the ballast bags for a happy day. the air is 
absolutely still, for you travel with the wind, 
and therefore do not feel even the faintest 
breezes. There is no sense of motion, of 
course— how could there be?- for there is 
nothing to jar or shake the car, The world 
is stretched beneath 
you as a large un- 
rolled map of which 
you cannot see the 

A few well-known 
places indicate your 
course, and are an 
ever - changing in- 
terest. In London, 
whence I have done 
nearly all my bal- 
looning, Hyde Park 
is a splendid land- 
mark, the Serpen- 
tine showing up 
well for miles and 
miles, The Houses 
of Parliament, St. 
Pauls, Whitehall, 
the Big Wheel of 
Earl's Court, the 
Crystal Palace, are 
all familiar figures 
to the English aero- 
naut. At one's 
first ascent from 
London one is sur- 
prised at the trees and water the Metropolis 
contains— ponds and lakes form gleam- 
ing streaks all over the scene, while the 
green patches of the squares and parks are 
almost more prominent than the houses. The 
immense city ceases very gradually, the houses 
become scarcer and the green [witches mare 
numerous, tilt the country begins almost 
before one has time to realize it. At a 
good height the view is not |>articiilar]y in- 
teresting, the uniform fields and hedges of 
England forming a kind of gigantic chess- 
board, which palls after a while* The country 
looks weirdly flat from a great height, and it 
takes quite a big hill to make any kind of 
show. The railway line seems to break off 


h t HON 

short all of a sudden for no apparent reason, 
and begin again a little farther oil Only 
by thinking it out does one realize that there 
must be a hill, and consequently a tunnel 
between the two pieces. 

Sounds reach one from the earth with 
curious distinctness* liven at a consider 
able height 1 have often heard a dog 
barking from what seemed startlingly near, 
when we were really several thousand feel 
up, and a man on a road would only seem a 
tiny black speck at that distance. The toot 
of a motor-horn and church bells are other 
sounds that carry very far, and constantly 
bring back to one J s memory the existence of 

life on earth. Per- 
sonally I do not 
care for the middle 
course in balloon- 
ing, and my tastes 
are divided be- 
tween " trailing " 
and getting above 
the clouds. In the 
second case, there, 
indeed, the magic 
charm of balloon- 
ing grips you in 
lull j and you feel 
in another world 
and another life. 
The sun shines 
hotly in a blue sky, 
while beneath your 
little car and all 
around it is a worn 
derland of clouds, 
over End through 
which you gently 
sail, the shadow of 
the balloon dis- 


uvsto*. {fkaio. tinctly outlined on 

the white mass of 
vapour. Some of the effects are marvellous; 
every cloud has a different colour and 
a different sha[>e, I have seen some purply- 
blue ones lying perfectly horizontally across 
the sky, and great, spiked, craggy, white 
ones coming down on the top of them, 
for all the world like the glaciers of Spits- 
bergen descending to the sea. Then little 
detached while cloudy like small icebergs, 
would float across the darker mist, com- 
pleting the illusion perfectly. The balloon 
would sail round the edge of some huge, solid- 
looking mass, that offered such delightful peeps 
of smooth stretches, mysterious caverns, and 
untrodden heights that one longed to anchor 




wonderful new country to 
explore its beauties. If 
you have once been in 
cloud-land you can never 
forget its charm, and even 
from solid earth and 
amongst life's prosy occu- 
pations you look at the 
clouds with new eyes, for 
they are all old friends. 
You have been amongst 
them and know what they 
look tike from the other 
side, I k-x-\ quite a >a<i 
ness when it is necessary 
io leave cloud-land, and 
sink through the mist to 
see the world, with its 
white roads and clumps of 
trees, becoming visible 
once more. 

1 am often asked what 
" trailing J: means. The 
trail-rope, or guide-rope, 
that hangs from the balloon is generally two 
hundred and fifty feet long, so that when you 
are two hundred feet from the ground you 
have fifty feet of rope trailing over the country 
behind you- As soon as the end of the rope 
touches the ground you are "trailing." It 
slackens your speed, but steadies the balloon 
enormously, keeping her always at the same 
height and enabling you to travel for quite a 
long time with rsry little expenditure of 
ballast. Trailing is grand fun, but it has its 
drawbacks. To begin with, 
people you meet imagine 
that, having descended so 
low, you wish to alight al- 
together, and chase the 
trail-rope in hopes of captur- 
ing the balloon. A good 
deal of shouting is neces- 
sary to explain that is not 
your intention, and some 
individuals get quite huffy 
at the idea that you do not 
wish to alight in their field. 
The long, wn^ling line of 
rope does no damage in the 
open country, but over 
houses and flower-beds it is 
a different matter, and it 
is often wiser to sacrifice a 
little ballast and rise above 
other people's chimney - 
pots. On a calm day it 
is very pleasant to be able 
to descend gently to the 

IN Mll.,\IK. 

From a Photo, bf Arptni Archer, KeuainQtu** 

Thf. SHAtJOW Ok The halloon d; 

from* Phvto, 

ground by simply opening 
the valve ; and after you 
have stayed there long 
enough and wish to go on, 
by discharging a small 
quantity of ballast you can 
easily rise again to quite a 
good height. Mr, F. H. 
Kutler told me that in one 
of his recent ascents he 
came down no fewer than 
eight times during the trip. 
Of course, no one must 
leave the car when it is 
resting on the ground, for, 
relieved of the weight of 
one person, the balloon 
would soar away immedi- 
ately to any height. At 
first it is difficult to realize 
the enormous difference a 
little ballast makes; a small 
shovelful of sand causes 
quite a perceptible rise. 
To return to trailing, I am told on good 
authority that it is becoming a serious 
problem to deal with, and an international 
meeting of the various aero clubs of the 
world is to be organized, for the object of 
discussing and laying down stringent rules 
about that part of ballooning. In a gentle 
summer breeze practically no harm is done, 
but in anything like a gale enormous damage 
can be caused by the guide-rope racing over 
laud and houses at fifty miles an hour, to say 
nothing of the danger to 
life and limb. As it is 
very difficult to rely on the 
balloonist's discretion 
where trailing is concerned, 
it is probable that a rule 
will be made forbidding it, 
except, of course, just before 
landing, when it becomes 
a bso 1 u t ely n ec e ssary . When, 
this rule comes into force, 
though undoubtedly it may 
be more prudent, balloon- 
ists will be deprived of what 
is certainly a great pleasure, 
for nothing is more amusing 
on a tine summer's day than 
skimming gently over the 
land, just grazing the tree 
tops and house roofs. 

Even when you are rising 
or sinking very rapid lv it 

to realize 
our own 



sensations. It' the descent is u.iv quick 
indeed you may get a distinct pain in 
your ears ; some people are more sensitive 
in this way than others, Sometimes, when 
falling rapidly and throwing out ballast to 
check the descent, I have seen the sand that 
was thrown overboard a few seconds before 
fall in a rain on the heads of the occupants 
of the car, with the most curious effect. 
But as a rule you cannot guess your move- 
ments unless you consult the instruments. 

In former years, before instruments were 
used in ballooning, aeronauts would throw 
out small pieces of paper or feathers as 
a guide. There are some who still use 
this system, but with anything so clear 
and so easy to use as the statoscope and 
the aneroid the old way seems far inferior- 
The working of the instruments ifc the 
most interesting part of ballootiing, and 
the movement of the good little needle is 
absorbing at every moment of the ascent. 
You rart'ly keep at the same height for any 
length of time; the sun may suddenly shine 
out hotter and expand your gas, sending you 
up several hundred feet in a few seconds ; 
then a cloud may cool the air and send you 
shooting earthwards, when ballast has to be 
nicely managed to check your descent. This 
happened to us in one of our summer ascent*, 
and illustrates aptly one of the drawbacks 
of ballooning. We started in blazing sun- 
shine, and if anything the heat of the car was 
almost unpleasant We went up higher and 
higher without using any ballast, till we were> 
as far as I can recollect, at over four thousand 
feet and still steadily rising. Then, all at once, 
we noticed a large black cloud approaching 

the sun, and as soon as the latter was 
darkened down we began to go, the gas in 
the balloon having contracted till her sides 
were quite shrivelled. Several precious bags 
of ballast were hastily sacrificed, and we 
only recovered our " equilibrium " at about 
two hundred feet, and with only three 
bags of ballast left at our disposal. This 
was too little to attempt another rise, for at 
least a bag and a half {prudent people say 
two bags) must be kept for emergencies that 
may occur at the descent ; so there we were, 
obliged to come down after less than an 
hour's journey. Of course, we might have 
trailed for an hour or so, but the country, 
thickly wooded and studded with houses* 
was scarcely suitable, so down we came in 
the first convenient field we found. 

I think that rain is the greatest enemy 
to ballooning, and it is really hopeless to 
struggle against a heavy downpour. The 
rain increases the weight of the balloon to an 
enormous extent, and is for ever forcing her 
downwards. You throw ballast overboard in 
the most hopeless manner, for a rise of a few 
hundred feet is immediately followed by a 
proportionate sinking, and you are lucky 
when, having got rid of your store of Uallasi 
in an incredibly short space of time, you find 
a safe spot for a descent. The system o( 
throwing out a large quantity of ballast, so as 
to rise above the rain clouds and ki-ep a\ 
altitude for the rest of the day, is only 
possible in a country* so far removed from 
the sea that there is practical ly no danger 
from that source, In an island like England, 
with anything of a wind, you cannot afford 
to be out of sight of land for several hours— 

the risk is too 
great ; and my 
only advice to 
those who wish to 
balloon on a rainy 
day is, " Don't/' 

People imagine 
that the descent 
is full of terrors, 
and that even' 
time you risk 
several limbs, if 
not your life. 
Given always a 
fairly calm day, 
with a good aero- 
naut, the descent 
should be nothing 
to speak of. Of 
I pourse, you may 

TAVL% Av StEN KlfOM TJIK HALUWK. [Pho(V- gCv & DUlXlp Of WQ^ 



Frwjfcft] h uikd's-hy 

but people who can* t stand 
a bump should stay at 
home in a comfortable 
arm chair You hang on 
to the ropes, raising your- 
self slightly off the floor 
of the car and tucking up 
your feet, so that when 
the hump comes its shock 
is considerably lessened, 
and all that happens is 
that you find yourself 
seated with remarkable 
suddenness at the bottom 
of the basket, which has 
evidently sprung up to 
meet you. Before you 
recover your breath the 
balloon is off the ground 
again and rising to quite 
a considerable height. As 
I have already said, a 
hideous and unpardon- 
able offence is to jump 
out the moment the car 
touches the ground. The veriest novice 
should know that a balloon always bounces 
twice before settling herself for the third 
and last time on the ground, and you 
must stick to her till it is all over, This 
seems quite simple, but I am told it is 
surprising how often a novice will forget this 
golden rule and wish tu spring the moment he 
sees the earth at a comfortable distance. Some- 
times a*, the first or second bump the car will 
tip over on one side, and the passengers find 
themselves in the ridiculous position of 
dogs in a kennel* But all is well so long as 
a strong wind is not blowing. Then only 
does the real excitement of ballooning 
come in. Opening the valve does not 
immediately release all the gas, and thus the 
balloon may go floundering wildly across the 
country, cannoning into trees and fences, 
and dragging her little car-load of pas- 
sengers behind her. It *is then that the 
"ripping-line" comes in — that comparatively 
new invention that has done so much for the 
safety of aeronauts. By pulling the thin red 
cord the silk envelope is torn and the whole 
balloon collapses, its wild career being, there- 
fore, brought to an abrupt standstill The 
utility of the ripping-cord was brought home 
to me with considerable force in a recent 
ascent. We started from Ix>ndon in gusty 
weather, though at no time was the wind 
particularly strong. Almost at once we got 
into thick rain^louds, with the usual madden- 
iog result already mentioned, so that we 



realised that our trip could only be a very 
short one, and all we could hope for was to 
get clear of London before a descent became 
inevitable. This we managed to do ? and at 
the first convenient field down we came. A 
fairly strong wind was blowing at the time, so 
we hit the ground with considerable force 
and the car overturned. For some time 
the ripping-line failed to act, and there- 
fore the balloon began to fly across the field 
on a level with the ground, the car dragging 
and bumping along behind. The importance 
of holding on to the rigging is illustrated by 
the fact that, the jerk on hitting the ground 
having made me lose my hold, my left arm 
and right hand got caught between the car 
and the ground, and in this unpleasant posi- 
tion I was dragged across a ploughed field, 
with my face only a few inches above the 
ground. Fortunately the field was very 
muddy and soft, and we encountered no 
obstacles, for we dragged seventy -five yards 
before the balloon stopped, and I did not 
enjoy the idea of taking the thorny hedge 
face foremost without a tree hand. But this 
was an exceptional occurrence, and must not 
be taken as a typical balloon descent, though 
I suppose it would have been an everyday 
matter in the good old days before Lhe 
ripping-line was invented. 

Up to the present I have only spoken of 
fine-weather baMoonm^ and I can con- 





l/ J fcrfu, 

lazy occupation. But, of course, such days 
are not made for record-breaking, All the 
splendid long trips of the Cumte de la Vaulx, 
M. Jacques Faure, and M, Balzan have 
been made in gales. Few people can ho])e 
to emulate the deeds of the daring French 
aeronauts, so their ballooning must be con- 
sidered a thing apart from that of more 
ordinary mortals. 

My most exciting trip was one accompanied 
by a certain amount of risk. We started 
from St. Cloud, Paris, in half a gale, M, 
Jacques Faure as aeronaut in charge, the 
other two passengers besides myself being 
Mrs. Assheton Harbord and Lord Royston. 
VVe chose six in the evening as the time of 
departure, our intention being to travel all 
night and land in Germany some time in the 
morning. This proves how little one can 
really calculate the evact direction in which 
the wind may take one, A word about 
travelling at night. 1 am so ofte*n asked why 
we choose to make ascents in the dark, when 
it is scj much more difficult to grasp onrt 
direction. The reason is simple. On account 
of the uniformity of the atmosphere practi- 
cally no gas escapes at night, and in conse- 
quence one is able to travel for several 
hours without throwing out ballast. As the 
length of one's trip entirely defends on 
the amount of ballast one has in reserve, 
how much is to be gained by starting in 
the evening instead of the morning is obvious. 
In this case 3 however, night proved most 

unfavourable to us, 
Darkness came 
on very quickly, 
being greatly in- 
creased by the 
heavy rain -clouds 
that surrounded us 
on all sides. The 
wind became 
stronger and 
stronger, veering 
round to -i regular 
south - westerly 
gale. The prospect 
was scarcely pleas- 
ing, and the next 
hours were some- 
what critical ones. 
We could not tell 
whether we were 
already out of 
France, but the 
compass indicated 
that we w r ere being 
driven towards 
the north* The night was intensely black, 
and our skilled aeronaut judged that we 
were travelling at the tremendous rate of 
a hundred kilometres —about sixty-three 
miles—an hour. Every now and then we 
dashed into some thick cloud that enveloped 
us like a fog for a few moments. The 
only sounds we could hear were the wind 
roaring in the trees beneath us and the patter 
of the rain, on the balloon. Personally we 
were in the greatest possible comfort, There 
was not the slightest apparent motion! not a 
breeze fanned our faces, for, of course, we 
were travelling with the hurricane, and the 
big balloon overhead kept the rain from us 
nicely. Under these circumstances we dined 
with a very good appetite, the only drawback 
being that, as ballast was running short 
and a descent in such a hurricane not tu 
be desired, we were obliged to hurriedly 
throw overboard the remainder of our 
dinner and our provisions for the morning 
meal, livery now and then we passed over a 
conglomeration of lights that denoted the 
presence of some small town or village, but 
no answer came to our shouts of fc, 06 
sommes-nous? n and the gale whirled us on 
into the night. A faint glow* on the horizon 
indicated the vicinity of some large city, 
and in a few minutes brilliant lights came in 
sight. We had a moment's thrill when we 
thought we saw the sea on the outer fringe of 



our breath we left the cluster of lights far 
behind us and found the open country on the 
other side, We only knew afterwards that we 
had passed over Antwerp, By this lime sve 
had thrown overboard everything that could 
possibly be dispensed with, yet all the same 
at moments our guide-rope tombed the 
ground ^ jerking the car so violently that we 
had to cling to the rigging to avoid being 
thrown out. The question of the descent 
was becoming problematic, for presumably 
the sea could not be far off, and we were all 
on the qui vive. Then two extraordinarily 
Uicky things happened. The wind slightly 
decreased, and at that moment I^ord 
Royston, helped by his long experience of 
the sea, noticed a light on the horizon 
that flashed in a particular way. He at 
once called M, Faure's attention to it, 

The rest of our trip illustrates the rough side 
of ballooning. Lost in an unknown land in 
the dead of night, for we did not even know 
in which country we were, soaked by the 
rain and buffeted by the wind s we had to 
walk two miles before finding shelter of any 
kind. But of that part of ballooning it is 
not my object now to speak* 

The fact of being with M. Jacques Faure 
on that trip saved our lives. He is the first 
aeronaut who had the courage to experiment 
with the ripping- line in mid -air. Till he 
made his first a i tempt about two years ago, 
all balloonists thought that to pull the 
ripping- line anywhere but on the ground 
meant suicide. Faure demonstrated that by 
ripping part of the balloon at a certain 
height you descend promptly and safely, the 
balloon forming a parachute, and the rest of 

*Vvm o,' 



remarting that he thought it was a light- 
house. M. Faure agreed, and immediately 
pulled the ripping-line, though we were at 
least sixty yards from the ground. The 
balloon parachuted and came down com 
paratively gently. Another instance of extra 
ordinary luck. It was impossible, owing to the 
darkness and the haste with which we were 
obliged to descend, to choose our spot for 
landing ; all the same, we came down in the 
softest of ploughed fields, the car upset t and 
we scrambled out in a veritable quagmire. 
The sea was a hundred yards off and 
we had landed on I he coast of Holland, 
near a smalt village not far from Dordrecht, 
having accomplished the journey from Paris 
in four hours and a half 

the ripping must be done when the car 
touches the ground. This experience of his 
proved invaluable on our trip, for had he 
relied solely on the valve for our descent we 
must inevitably have been carried out to sea 
and drowned before sufficient gas had escaped 
from the balloon to enable us to reach the 

But this sort of trip is exceptional, and 
need never be taken except by those who 
are willing to risk something for the sake 
of a new sensation. There is no sport 
that depends more on the weather for safety 
than ballooning, All can choose their own day 
and its consequences —the so called "ladies 1 
day 1 ' with it^-j^lfittfgj^sures, or the record- 

The " Honorable's ' Last Crack. 

By Francis Walking ham Mather. 

IGHHILL had pretensions to 
g*] fame and to a claim on the 
world's notice. The new 
patent steel fire-and-burglar- 
proof safe was the costliest in 
any county courthouse for 
many, many counties round — and counties in 
Texas are as big as Slates up East ; and the 
citizens of the big subdivision of the big 
State were intensely proud of this burglar- 
defier, as they also were of the capture by 
their own steady- nerved sheriff of the most 
notorious safe-breaker, train-robber, and all- 
round "bad man" who had blazed a red 
path through that section of country for 
many years. 

Therefore, the crowd celebrated hilariously 
with assorted drinks and loud shouts, for 
they were proud, and, after the manner of 
their kind, they wanted all the world to know 
it» The capture 
of the Hon. 
Westley Comp 
ton (he had 
been a member 
of some frontier 
State Legisla- 
ture in the dim 
and misty past, 
and strenuously 
insisted on 
being addressed 
as'* Honorable") 
would have been 
enough excuse 
for a two -day 
celebration in It- 
self, but when 
he had been 
taken single 
handed by the 
sheriff, after 
an hour's stiff 
fight, in which 
both had been 
wounded, and 
after a most in- 
solent, bragga^ 
docio attempt 
on the new High - 
hill safe — which 
had failed — the 
joy of the hooted, 
spurred, and 
wide- hat ted burst 


all hounds, and they whooped, drank, and 
danced n\ an outburst that would have beer, 
riotous elsewhere. But Jim, the little treble- 
voiced town marshal, who had cut four 
notches on his gun, had just said :— 

"No gun play, boys, Take the town, 
but don't do no promiscuous shooting or I'll 
take a hand," 

Now, the way these things were brought to 
pass was by the combination of judicious 
advertising on the part of the agent of the 
company that had sold the safe to the county, 
and a lot of brag advertising on the part of 
the officials and [>eople of High hi 11. The 
county had, three years before, voted bonds 
and built a fine brick court-house, but the 
parties to the contract on the part of the 
county, in a fit of economy, had resolved to 
let the old safe remain, with the result that 
expert cracksmen had robbed it of valuable 

papers, indict- 
ments, etc, pre- 
sumably at the 
instance of cer- 
tain cattle -rust- 
lers. Incident- 
ally they had 
cleaned up all 
the cash in the 
money- drawer at 
the same time. 
Thereat the 
papers of the 
counties had 
poked fun at 
High hill and her 
people, until the 
one local editor 
was moved to 
journey to a near 
by town and, 
niter passing the 
time of day in a 
warm manner 
with that town's 
local editor, to 
shoot him. The 
whole popula- 
tion of Highhill 
rushed to defend 
him, and the 
money put up 
for court fees 


Original from 

MfflffmiJFffllffllGAN,™ more than 


r 53 

his subscription list footed up, but he got 
five years, and when he requested a last talk 
with some of the citizens of Highhill he 
said: — 

"Boys, I don't mind saying it's tough, 
'cause you all tried to keep me out of the 
pen, but, as you couldn't do that, I want you 
to promise to do two things : keep the old 
rag going until I get out and buy a new 
safe by that time, or I may have to shoot 
another of those doddering fools that don't 
know enough to shut a barn door." 

They promised, and the " rag " in its next 
issue made a solemn assertion that Highhill 
court-house should have the finest, most 
complete, up-to-date safe and vault that 
money could buy. They got it, and hauled 
it forty miles across country from the railroad, 
and stood round and watched the skilled 
mechanics put up the massive steel doors, 
with their huge complication of locks and 
bolts and bars, and heard with delight their 
learned talk of time locks that had baffled 
every burglar that had tackled them. The 
hearts of the Highhillers waxed glad at 
seeing and hearing, and the " rag " faithfully 
cnronicled every step of the work ; while the 
local correspondent for the big paper pub- 
lished on the sand-bar down on the gulf 
sent in such a glowing account of the enter- 
prise of the people of Highhill, and made 
such a brag about the safe, that it was a 
dare to every burglar and bad man out of 

One man took up the dare— the Honor- 
able. With cool effrontery he wrote to the 
sheriff that he proposed to try conclusions 
with that safe at an early date. Whereat the 
sheriff laughed, but he took no chances on 
a bluff game. 

"This fellow is a square sport," said he 
to his chief deputy, Andy Cummings — "a 
square sport, Andy, and if I catch him square 
I'll kill him, but it wouldn't be square in me 
to give him away to the crowd. He's given 
me fair warning that he's coming, and I'll 
give him all the show he wants for his game." 

For this reason the sheriff and Andy bided 
close to the court-house, turn about, night 
after night, and watched. Not that they 
entertained the faintest treasonable suspicion 
that the Honorable could break into the 
big safe ; but they wished to bag him — not to 
kill him unless it was necessary — but to bag 
him fair and square, and what happened was 
as they planned. 

"Sleepy," as his intimates called Sheriff 
Redsands, looked sleepy, but they knew that 
no more wideawake man held office in Texas. 

Vol xxxnL — 2Q 

When one morning about four o'clock, after 
the moon had dropped below the distant 
horizon and a dim mist cloud had sunk down 
over Highhill like a big, grey, wet sweater, 
Sleepy was hung up under the shelter of 
Jakey Cohen's Mammoth Emporium, chew- 
ing steadily and watching the court-house. 
His pinto, wise old cow-pony, with loosened 
reins and drooping ears, stood close by. 

" What's that ? " said Redsands, quick and 
soft to the pinto, as he threw up his head and 
sniffed down the street. 

" Looks like a blue ghost— or the Honor- 
able," commented Sleepy, as he slid into the 
saddle and pushed his pony out into the 

" Sort of damp this morning, Honorable," 
said Redsands, cheerfully ; " hands up ! " 

Things happen quickly out there on that 
hot prairie, even on a damp, cool morning, 
and the cracking of six-shooter answering 
six-shooter was punctuated by hoof-beats as 
the two cow* ponies broke down the street in 
a dead run, knocking up the damp dust and 
rendering good shooting impossible. The 
Honorable was down over his horse's neck, 
one foot showing a spurred heel back over 
the cantle of his saddle. Redsands was 
leaning forward pitching shot after shot at 
the pony dashing away in the dust-ladened 
atmosphere before him. His chances for 
being missed, with the Honorable shooting 
back over his shoulder, were good ; and 
directly he sat up straighter, dropped the 
reins over two fingers of his left hand, forty- 
four over the crook of his left elbow, and 
pumped two more shots at the flying cayuse. 

Then he ducked under the smoke to see 
his game side jump, and he knew he had 
touched him up for one hit. But that one hit 
was like a hot spur to the little cayuse, and 
Redsands jabbed in his spurs savagely as he 
suddenly realized that the Honorable was 
gaining. There were sounds behind them 
that let both know that Highhill had waked 
up and was following, or rather in the direc- 
tion the excited crowd thought was the right 
one. It was good for one of the followed 
that it was so, and the Honorable pushed for 
the " motte " of timber that he knew lay 
far out on the prairie, with an energy that 
bespoke a knowledge of comparative safety. 
Once there and down behind a post oak, 
little trouble would it be for him to knock 
that sheriff out of his saddle and lope off to 
safety sure enough. That touch-up of hot 
lead that his cayuse had got from Redsands's 
gun, and another scrape, set the pony squeal- 
ing and | Ityfijfjg^ |JppP s l^ e a prong -horn. 



Then he got back at 

the sheriff with a 

tinkler on the left 

funny-bone that 

fetched a screech out 

of him that a ball 

through the body 

would never have got> and caused him to 

drop the muzzle of his gun just as he had 

drawn a dead bead on the head of the 

Honorable's eayuse. But it landed nearly as 

well, for it raked Compton's leg and head so 

close that he lost grip and fell stunned to 

the grounds while his last bullet smashed into 

Redsnnds'.s left .shoulder. 

The eayuse kept right on, the sheriffs 
pinto thrust out his fore feet stiffly and 
stopped short, while his rider, faint and dizzy 
from his wound, had just strength enough 
left to fall on the Honorable, snap the cuffs 
on his wrists, and then roll over in a half 
faint that lasted until someone pulled up his 
head and poured half a pint of whisky down 
his throat. Then he sat up, 

" Hi I Honorable — open that safe?" grinned 
Redsands, and the prisoner laughed back as 
he answered i — 

"Maybe I'D open it yet One of you 
fellows rope my eayuse, I'm too lame to walk 
back," and the good-humoured crowd rolled 
in the saddles, roaring and slapping their 
thighs in appreciation of his pluck* Just as 



"tub cracking of six -shooter akkiybrihc: 




cheerfully would they 
have shot or hanged 
him if they, instead of 
the sheriff, had made 
the round-up. But no 
mobs meddled with the 
sheriffs prisoners — not 
since he put two men 
Out for trying that game 
two years gone, 

The sun jumped up 
hot and blazing, while 
the procession formed 
itself and trailed after 
two men who went hot- 
foot after the doctors to 
aid the wounded men. 
Meanwhile the Honor- 
able remarked casually 
to Redsands^ " What's 
the row, Sleepy? What's 
you chasing me for ? " 
u Can't tell till I 
look over the warrants. 
Honorable. You can 
take your pick out'nsix"; 
while the crowd shouted 
with fine appreciation of 
the joke, and chaffed 
the Honorable, who 
took it all as cool as a 
pot of beer. 

Presently there was 
another procession that 
heaved itself out of the town and, with 
much hilarious profanity, dashed up and 
joined unto the other. Some of the last 
recognised the Honorable as one whom they 
suspected of having made free with certain 
horses and horned beasts that were not in 
his brand, and therefore they greeted him 
with profanity that was not hilarious, but 
deep and Texan. But the cussed one made 
no sign nor winced as the rush closed m ; 
just glanced at Redsands, who drawled out 
— a little quicker than he usually spoke: 
" Don't crowd us too close, boys. Honor- 
able and I h both hit hard, 11 with a comical 
word on the pain that racked his shoulder 
that furnished fresh amusement for the crowd. 

(l Fm sure glad I didn't hurt you worse. 
Sleepy/ 1 said the Honorable, two weeks 
later " And what's all the trouble ? " 

" Well, I picked up the top one, and it was 
for hoss-stealing, so I let it go at that. What 
the county attorney'll do, don't know ; but 
we haven't got nothing worse than hoss and 


J 55 

" Well, you let it go at that, Sleepy ; let it 
go at that I'm satisfied." 

The sheriff regarded his prisoner steadily 
out of his sleepy brown eyes for a moment 
ere he dropped the comment : — 

" There's a big reward for somebody who 
held up the Katie: 9 The Honorable 
laughed, Redsands kept on in the same 
tone. " And a bigger one for the man who 
busted the bank up in that Kansas town." 
It must have sounded funny, for Compton 
fairly shook with laughter. "And two or 
three other banks that had good safes else- 
where. Looks like your work, Honorable; 
but why you want to monkey with a safe and 
you so handy at a lone hold-up beats me. 
They're all chasing you over the wire ; the 
papers are coming and it's plumb sure they'll 
send you up for long keeps. Don't," he 
added, with a sharpening of his voice like 
steel on stone, as he noted the peculiar 
expression in the Honorable's eyes as he 
glanced at the sheriff's stiff arm— "don't; 
Andy's got you covered. I'm not taking no 
chances on you getting out, so I don't tote 
my gun when I come in this cell." 

"Never thought of it," said the Honorable, 
coolly, as he cast an eye up at the forty-four 
Winchester that Andy held on him ; " never 
thought of it, and you are dead wrong on 
the bank business"; but he sighed as his 
glance wandered momentarily to the window 
and he saw the blue vault under which the 
hot air wavered and fanned as the gulf breeze 
blew, that men and beasts could live on that 
hot, bald prairie. " When does court meet ? " 
he added, suddenly. 

" Monday." 

" Two days, and one a holiday. Well, say, 
do you think the county attorney will run in 
that whole bunch of hoss warrants on me 
this round-up ? " 

"Can't tell, Honorable; but you've been a 
mighty hard steer to rope, and I reckon the 
outfit'll try to brand and mark you both. Got 
a lawyer ? " 

Compton nodded. "Not as it matters 
much, if you've got your branding-irons hot, 
as you say. Say, Sleepy, what kind of a safe 
is that you've got over there ? " and he jerked 
his head toward the court-house. 

" Time - lock," said Redsands, shortly ; 
"that's why I said you was a fool to go 
bucking up against that thing." 

The Honorable whistled. Said Redsands : 
" When did you take up that trade ? Don't 
think I want you to squeal on yourself, but I 
didn't think a handy man with his gun like 
you, with sand too, would go sneaking in a 

house and busting a lock," and the sheriff" 
had a half-disgusted look in his eyes ; 
"always looked on burglars as a mean lot, 

" You don't bust them, Sleepy. It takes 
art, high art, science, nerve, thought, and 
skill to open a modern safe, especially if it's 
one of those modern time-locks." 

"You do it?" 

The Honorable, regarding his jailer quizzi- 
cally, laughed ; " Of course not ; people who 
know say I can't do nothing but bust 
broncos and brand mavericks. But don't 
you think I'm all fool." 

Both fell silent ; then the sheriff got up : 
"Grub all right? Well, I'll see you don't 
want for nothing while I've got you to keep, 
Honorable, drinks nor nothing ; for I reckon 
as them as will get you won't be specially 
anxious to furnish cocktails every morning." 

The laugh with which both men greeted 
this sally showed that each understood the 
other ; a moment later the heavy doors of the 
cell clanged open as the sheriff of the law 
passed out, and crashed to behind him on 
the tall, well-built, and rather handsome man 
who stood back in the centre of the cell 
alone. He looked up; Andy smiled down 
on him through the grating and said, 
pleasantly : — 

" I'm on till nine ; then Jim. Sleepy says 
two deputies and a sheriff is racing here with 
requisition papers and he's bound to hold 

The Honorable Westley Compton turned 
sharp on his heel with never a word. 

A bird sat on the sill of the cell-window, 
twittered and chirped, with now and then a 
pause to preen its feathers, while the Honor- 
able stood inside and watched the little 
fellow until the clank of the door brought 
him round to face the sheriff. There was a 
look on the latter's face that caused Compton 
to say, eagerly : — 

"What's up?" 

"Just this," and Redsands leaned back 
against the closed door and looked at the 
prisoner for a moment with a slow smile on 
his lips that caused a wild heart-beat for a 
moment to flutter like hope imprisoned in 
the outlaw's breast. 

"Just this. That train with the requisi- 
tion papers has been wrecked — lot of people 
killed, train burnt up, and this is Monday. 
Say, Honorable, you stand with a small dose 

here " He stopped, looked keenly at 

the Honorable, and then glanced back 
through u tj| f|? .^^f | ^ i |e ffiG ,There stood 



a little tot of five or six years, whose inno- 
cent blue-brown eyes and brown-gold hair 
were pathetically out of keeping with her 
hard surroundings, as she stood smiling up 
at the two men, who stared at her until 
Redsands broke out with :■ — 

*' Hi ! Dimple, how T d you get up here ? J ' 
"Followed you. papa," answered the tot, 
with a charming lisp, her face breaking into 
dimples as she smiled, and gave reason for 
the love-name that her father called her. 

Kir HERE?'" 

** Say, Sleepy, let her in, old man ; let some 
sunshine into this blamed hole 1" 

" Sure," and the sheriff swung open the 
great door while miss walked in, truly like 
a little bundle of animated sunshine and a 
breath of air from the gardens of Heaven, 
law-defender and law-breaker watching her as 
she ran peeping about the cdl until she spied 
the window. 

" Lift me up," she cried, with a clap of her 
dainty hands, and in an instant the Honor- 
able had swung her upon his shoulder, where 
she sat with one dimpled hand clutching his 
curls and the other shaking at a window-bar, 
while her whole body leaped and wriggled 

and jumped from sheer love of life and 
animal spirits. The sheriff stood by, laugh- 
ing silently as he watched the two. 

u Sleepy, I want to kiss her," and the 
Honorable held the baby between his face 
and Redsands. 

" Of course," replied the sheriff, in the 
same breath that Dimple fixed her other 
hunch of pink fingers in Compton's hair, and 
gave him a smack that might have been a 
thousand-baby-power kiss, to judge from the 
way the frame of the big outlaw shook. 
M Redsands," he cried, in a hoarse, 
choking voice, lf if I pull out of this 
round-up all right, 1*11 be a square man 
from now on " ; and he pulled Dimple 
down from his shoulder and crushed 
her up against his breast until her 
wide, frightened eyes stared at her 
father over Compton's shoulder. Then 
he took her from him, walked to the 
door, turned and nodded back ere he 
shot bolt and bar. 

The Honorable leaned forward 
as if to glimpse the last of his little 
visitor, ere the turn of the corridor 
shut her from view. For a moment 
the sound of her cheerful chatter 
came echoing back to him, and then 
silence fell, the silence of the prison, 
and with it the knowledge of the im- 
potency of his strength struck his spirit 
full, and roused him to a frenzy of pas- 
sion that drove him to rush at the barred 
door and tear and shake at it like a caged 
beast. In a bit the gust of rage had 
passed, and pale and trembling he lay 
on his cot with twitching fingers and 
trembling limbs that told what a storm 
was shaking the strong man's soul Then 
he grew calm again. 

Hundreds of restless feet had worn a 
fine dust from, the hard, sun-baked streets 
of Highhill, and hundreds of other restless 
fret kq>L tin* dust stirred and hanging over 
the heads of the crowds that swarmed into the 
saloons to quench their thirst, and streamed 
out again to stand in the hot sunshine, and 
talk, and swear, and joke, with all eyes 
turned toward the court-house and jail. A 
constantly recurring question thrown from 
the early arrivals to those who came in later 
was, " Have you seen him ? " or, (l Have you 
seen her ? " and at the word troops of booted, 
spurred, and broad hatted tramped off to 
stand outside the cell that held the Honorable, 
or to crowd i^to the clerk's office and 
squeeze yi'Qdfftw^fi^" 1 possible to the rail 




that kept the crowd back from the 
sacred precincts of the room, and 
state wth awe-filled eyes at the 
great steel safe, whose doors now 
stood open and showed on their 
inner surfaces the complication of 
bolts and bars and locks, Ix)ud, 
exultant laughs and congratulatory 
remarks passed through the crowd, 
which unanimously and profanely 
defied any safe- blower to open 
u her/' " She " was the triumph 
of honest mechanical art that 
would bluff any bad man's game* 
Why the feminine gender was 
selected as the proper one for the 
safe, no one stopped to think or 
question; except that "she" was 
a "daisy/ 3 and, per contra, all 
daisies were shes, according to 
the rough gallantry of the prairies. 

Presently another question began 
to float on the froth of the crowd's 

"Was the Honorable to be tried 
today, or was he to be held for 
some of the numerous train-rob- 
beries or safe- breakings that were 
laid to his account?" and rumours 
flew as thick as leaves in Vallom- 
brosa, and they whirled and eddied 
and finally spun into one accepted 
statement — that the officers with 
requisition papers had no right to 
be wrecked and killed, and High- 
hill was bound to try the Honor- 
able and send him up. Presently 
the outer fringes of the crowd 
began to drift upstairs, and quickly 
the mass removed in the direc- 
tion that seemed to ofler the most 
excitement. A deputy -sheriff pushed his 
way through the crowd, leaped over the rail, 
ajnd made a short speech to the clerk of the 
court, who rushed through the gaping doors 
of the big safe and came back with a bundle 
of papers. His deputies got in motion as 
the late -comer said, loudly : — 

" Better shut her up on the time-lock, 

*' Right you are," answered the clerk, as 
he paused to cast an admiring glance at 
41 her " ; " and as there are a lot of cases to 
come up, I'm going to set the lock for five 
o'clock, Hustie up, boys, and get these 
papers together. Halloa, Dimple ! " He 
caught the little one in his arms and tossed 
her in the air, adding, "Stay over there in 
the corner^ Dimple, till your pa comes." 



TO OVRS ' HER. 1 " 

Then he rushed over to the other side of the 
room to answer some question, while from 
above, out of the open window, boomed the 
voice of a big deputy sheriff, ** Oyez ! oyez ! " 
calling the court to order. There were hurry 
and rush and calls for the clerk, and none 
noticed the little restless figure who had left 
her corner and was tripping closer and closer 
to the great steel doors, None noticed her 
as she peeped in, none saw her as her little 
feet strayed farther and farther into the dark, 
cool, silent vault 

The crowd opened as the clerk of court 
came hastily forward, proud of his authority 
over the big safe, and the crowd that gave 
him passage and then pressed closer to the 
rail hung on his every move as he pushed 
the ^Wfep^lY^^WISHJCl^Fhey closed so 



smoothly, pivoting on the 
great hinges without a creak 
or a jar. The clerk stood 
for a moment to enjoy his 
triumph and the admiration 
of the crowd; then he called 
loudly to his deputies : 
"Got all the papers? Well" 
—he set the time - lock, 
stepped back, and waved 
his hand to the throng — 
" no one can get in or out 
till five o'clock." 

His friends drew a long 
breath and then swarmed 
after him up the stairs, leav- 
ing the clerk's office to three 
or four busy men who wrote 
and wrote in big books, and 
gave no heed to what was 

The crowd that gathered 
itself in the court-house at 
Highhill was keenly alive to 
all that transpired, and, al- 
though all the business of 
the court was carried on 
with decorum, there was a 
breeziness as of the prairies 
and a snap in the actions and 
speech or the principal actors that was eloquent 
of the free, manly life of the great State whereof 
they formed a small part. The sheriff and 
his deputies slung their six-shooters to their 
belts openly, and no man wondered, When 
there was an interval of rest a man pushed 
out of the throng and up to the judge's desk 
to light his stogie at his honour's cigar, and 
no man commented, 

There were some important cases up, but 
all interest seemed centred in the Honorable, 
He had come out from the jail and stood 
within i he rail talking with his attorney, and 
urging something whereat his adviser shook 
his head. Then the judge went back upon 
the Bench, and the crier called to order, and 
with shuffle of feet and rustle of body the 
spectators sank back on their seats or leaned 
against the walls, intent to see and hear all 
that passed. 

A man w T ith a yellow envelope in his 
fingers came hastily down the aisle. His 
glance ran hither and thither until he caught 
the sheriffs eye, and into his hands thrust 
the envelope. The crowd watched him as 
he tore it open t read it hastily, and then held 
it up before the face of the county attorney. 
The latter smiled and frowned all at 

ytiW* y 


once, then leaned I Kick, beckoned to the 
Honorable' s attorney, and whispered : "I 
shall try your case next/' 

The clerk was swearing a juryman ; some- 
one had caught the whispered words, and 
like a flash their import flashed back through 
the crowd, which moved itself and murmured 
satisfaction and interest Then the doors 
flew open ; a coat less man dashed down the 
aisle, throwing the bystanders against the 
ends of the benches. His face was white 
and his eyes were wide open and staring, 
With a gasp he fell up against the rail, and, 
as the indignant judge called for the sheriff 
to arrest this disorderly person for contempt 
of court, he cried out i — 

"Redsands, Dimple's shut up in the big 
safe ! ■ 

One might have cracked a whip twice, or 
taken one's hat off and put it on again, ere 
men realized just what this cry meant 
Then through the brain of every man who 
had watched the clerk of court close those 
massive doors shot the words : " No one can 
get in or out till five o'clock ! '* Redsands 
gazed dumbly at the man who had told him 
of his child's terribli peril, but it was the 

quic ^W^W^'tt^ ided over ** 



court that took in the whole horror of the 
thing, and it was his " God help her ! " that 
started the sheriff into life again. One leap 
fetched him over the rail, and like a demented 
man he tore through the crowd with a cry on 
his lips that rang above the rising murmur 
like the cry of a lost soul above the rustle of 
a storm. Men followed him in a sudden 
crush that packed the mass in the doors and 
momentarily stopped all egress, and as they 
panted and pushed the stem voice of the 
court broke on their ears and taught them 
where they were. Standing up he menaced 
them with hand and eye and voice ; a human 
life was in danger, but the law must be 
respected and the decorum of his court 
preserved. At his word a deputy - sheriff 
called the court to order, and when this had 
been obtained the judge spoke : " Secure the 
prisoners ; in the face of the terrible thing 
that has happened this court will stand 
adjourned till six o'clock this evening. 
Stop ! " as some rose hastily ; " remain seated 
until the prisoners are removed." 

Swiftly was this done, and then the human 
wave swept out of the room, down the stairs 
to the clerk's office below. There the excited 
men had packed themselves in a solid mass 
from the door to the centre rail, over which a 
few of the earliest comers had scrambled. 
In front of the vault stood Sheriff Redsands, 
tearing at the doors with his hands, frantically 
jerking at the knobs and handles, while he 
raved at the im potency of his efforts to effect 
an entrance ; cursing, praying, begging for 
help, until he leaned limp and panting against 
the grim steel doors which shut in his darling, 
and behind which she lay, possibly at that 
very second gasping out her last breath. 
Over the crowd in the room hung a hot 
steam, and strong men began to gasp and 
struggle for air. They roared and yelled, 
swaying backward and forward — calling out 
advice that none heard or heeded, until a 
strong, masterful figure passed through the 
private back door and stood by the wretched 
father in front of the closed vault. It was 
the judge. 

He spoke, but his voice was lost in the 
din of other voices. Catching several officers 
as they thronged and pushed about him he 
shouted orders in their ears — they turned 
and, drawing their weapons, dashed on the 
mob, shouting, " Keep back ! keep back ! 
Get out ! get out ! " 

Their rush carried the foremost ranks back 
a foot — no more. The crowd behind was 
too great ; they simply could not give back 
farther. The judge tore a pistol from the 

hand of the nearest deputy, pointed the 
weapon upward — the shots rang out, the 
smoke eddied over the heads of the struggling 
mass of humanity, and under the sudden 
impulse of fear those nearest the doors 
rushed out ; the press thinned, and the 
officers cleared the room. Then the panting, 
howling, wild ruck of men flung themselves 
out of the building and on to the ground, 
some bruised and hurt. The weaker fled on 
a short distance, the stronger stood for a 
moment at gaze and then tore back to the 
windows, around which they pressed eagerly 
to watch what passed within. 

The actfon there was rapid and decisive. 
Pointing to the private back door, the judge 
said, " Bring Compton ! Bring him like 
lightning ! " 

Two deputies tore out of the door, then 
one flew back— " The keys ! the keys ! " and 
with the words he snatched them from the 
side-pocket of Redsands's coat. Those who 
remained stood staring at the judge as he 
drew the sheriff from before the vault. How 
the seconds dragged ! Redsands began 
dimly to understand the call for the Honor- 
able, and a hot resentment swept over him 
that he was so long in coming. A big 
blue fly lighted on the front of the safe, and 
the wretched man watched it as it crawled 
up and down the scarcely-discernibl^ crack 
between the two doors. He was conscious 
of crying out something, and at the same 
instant was vaguely wondering if the blue- 
bottle would prise open the doors with its tiny 
feet. Thereat he laughed, and at sound of 
his voice some of the men about him went 
white to the lips and turned scared looks at 
each other. The crowd outside had grown 
strangely silent, and the little bunch of men 
inside were pressing up to the vault doors. 
Was it a cry ? 

" Thank God, she lives yet ! " burst from 
the lips of the judge, and his words were 
caught up by the watchers outside. Now 
there was sobbing, for women had gathered 
with the men, and their moans stilled for a 
while the louder tones of their mates about 

There was a rush of feet, and two jumps 
ahead of the deputies came the Honorable, 
his face aflame and his hands outstretched. 

"I'll crack this safe or blow myself to 
pieces ! " he cried, for he knew the work that 
was cut out for him. Then he fell to work, 
issuing his orders for tools, poXvder, and 

" My saddle-bags M — they seemed to fall 
through the stone walls at: his bidding, with 



the deadly explosive that men of his criminal 
craft use in their operations. Strange it was 
to see this hunted outlaw kneeling before the 
vault, surrounded by officers of the law who 
jumped to do his bidding, and aided to crack 
the very safe they had sworn to guard, 

" Give me a drink ; I must steady my 
nerves*" and it came without question. 
Then — -"Take him away, outside ! " 

"No, no!" screamed Red sands, but his 
fellows forced him to the rear of the 
room, and there held him. 

The diamond drills bit and bit into 
the hardened steel until the out- 
law could blow the powder through 
the cracks. Then he placed the 
stick of dynamite and prepared to 
light the fuse. 

u Stand back!" and at the 
word all but the firm man of 
the Bench fell back from the 
llonorable's side. There were 
a sparkle, a hiss, a terrific ex- 
plosion that shook the build- 

In a moment the Honorable 
was up from the floor where he 
had flung himself, dashed at 
the doors, and was tearing at 
the combination lock. Then 
he looked round with a hope- 
ful smile. 

** Once more, judge ! " and 
again he fell to work. Men 
had edged in through the door 
of the room, and had been 
pushed farther and farther, 
until they again almost filled 
the space to the rail But 
none noticed. All were too 
intent on the work before 
them. Once more the bits 
were biting and grinding, once 
more the powder was blown 
into the vents, and again there 
were the sparkle, the hiss, and 
the detonation of the bursting 
dynamite. Through the dust and smoke 
the half- stunned spectators could dimly 
see two men pull open the doors that 
leaned drunkenly apart, and lift a little white 
burden from the floor, and the yell they 
raised rivalled the voice of the dynamite 
cartridge. What a rush followed Red sands 
as he bore the insensible form of Dimple in 
his arms to the open air, with his friends 
whooping and the women laughing, crying, 
and striving to get at the object of all this 
noise ! 

While she lay so white and limp and 
apparently dead in her fathers arms, some- 
one jerked the Honorable by his arm— 
" Quick ! through the back door ! n Some- 
one shoved a roll into his pocket, and he 
felt the belt of a six-shooter drop and 
clasp around his hips. Outside two men 
held a bronco that leaped and strained 
as the Honorable went to them, running. 
From off in the distance came the screech 


of a locomotive whistle as he sprang to 

" Cut it fast, old man ! " cried one. 
"That's the special with the requisition 
papers for the hold-up on the Santa Vi 1 " 

The bronco, that looked so much like the 
sheriff's pinto, gave two great bounds and 
then spun round on his heels and came 

" This is my last crack, boys. I J m off ! " 
And back out of the cloud of dust came the 

VERY year sees 
foot hall taking a 
firmer hold of 
the affections 

and the leisure 
of the British public, and 
never was more attention 
paid to the science and 
morale of the game. But, 
as with all organized effort, 
whether of work or play, 
there is behind the skilful 
players, out of sight of the 
tumultuous crowd of specta- 
tors — unknown even to the 
c h ee r i rig m an-i nth e grand - 
a. BiHCHp stand — a great deal of hard 

Pk**. n ukii 4t &m*„ work and machinery. AH 
footballers, even geniuses, 
have to learn the game : it is the last game 
in the world to play itself. In cohesion, 
unity, t sprit de 
corps, lies the 
secret of suc- 
cess, But there 
is more than 
that. When a 
great match is 
to be played, 
when two sides 
are pitted 
against one 
another for the 
there is disci- 
pline to be 
exercised, self- 
denial, endur- 
ance ; and the 
mainspring oi 
all these vir- 
tues is the 
trainer. He photo.] out p nR a i 

Vol. wtxiiL— 2%. 

has, in the opinion of one of the Association 
trainers whose portraits appear in the course 
of this article, to watch over his men as a 
hen watches over her chickens, and upon the 
skill with which he plays his unseen part 
depends the issue of the match, 

The trainer is responsible for his team's 
state of health, and on him the managing 
committee rely, to no slight extent, for a 
prosperous season. the position is no 
sinecure, and the labour involved calls for 
great judgment and discretion. Many readers 
who take a most acute interest in football, 
both as players and spectators, have little 
notion of what training a team of professionals 
is like. 

M We begin every morning at ten o'clock," 
remarked Mr. Rohert Hunter, the popular 
trainer of the Mill wail football team, than 
whom, perhaps, no more skilful coach is to 
be found in English athletic circles, " and if 






Photo, (kmfmm, 


Photo. T. Cvnrminift 

\l. HUNTER, 


Phvto. H. Tkitte * Co. 

** IliH-STFiiHl), 


Phtrta. June* Itrv*. 


Photo. & Btbwrt*, 

it is not a match day, or the day after 
;i match, a long walk is prescribed for 
the morning's exercise. This is varied by 
a series of sprints, according to the weather. 
From one to three o'clock a respite is allowed 
for rest and refreshment, and in the afternoon 
Indian clubs, dumb- hell exercises, ball-punch- 
ing, and the like occupy our attention* 

11 Of course, the form ot exercise that suits 
one man does not necessarily suit another, 
and we have to study closely individual 
requirements. Moreover, the condition of a 
player is bound to fluctuate considerably. 
The man who has for a week been doing, 
say, three sprints of fifty yards, three of a 
hundred, and a run right round the field 
each day, would the next week probably 
require only half this amount of exercise, 

"As a matter of fact, we only train on 
three days during the week. But, (mining 
or no training, the men come to the field 
every day, as the regulations are that each 

man shall have a shower-bath daily, which 
is followed by a brisk and invigorating rub 
down. Hot baths, too, are very beneficial, 
especially if a man has any wounds or 

" During the first three weeks of the 
season half an hour daily is devoted to 
shooting at the goal, but after this period 
matches become so frequent that practice 
with the ball is unnecessary. 

*' Some players," continued Mr. Hunter, 
"consider it a good thing to indulge in 
lengthy runs — four or five miles daily. For 
improving the wind this is all very well, but 
if repeated constantly has the effect of con- 
siderably reducing the runner's speed. There 
is, in my opinion, no greater mistake than to 
overtax your strength — overtraining is worse 
than no training at all. 

"Another important consideration in con- 
nection with football is the condition of the 
player's boots. It is absolutely essential to 

Photo ] 



I I l|H I J I I I ■■* I 1 1 




J'frjfr.l SKI} 

keep the bars and studs on the boots in 
proper order, as defective boots are liable to 
cause strains, which may later on have 
serious consequences. 

"As to diet, the men may eat precisely 
what they please, except on the day of a 
match, when a certain amount of care has to 
be exercised* For breakfast, which is served at 
nine o'clock, each man has a mutton chop or 
1 steak. For dinner there is nothing better 
than a boiled leg of mutton, which is not 
only the lightest meat you can get, but is 
also free from fat or grease. Tea, by reason 
of its stimulating properties, is beyond all 
doubt the best drink a footballer can have— 
both after the match and at half-time. We 
have no hard and fast rules with regard to 
smoking, but a man is not expected to light 
up within an hour of a match. Of course, it 
would be wiser to abstain from the use of 
tobacco altogether. ' 

Mr. Robert Crone, thanks to whose efforts 
the Brentford team have made such rapid 
strides of* late, looks at the matter from 
another stfmdpoint. 

*' A col£ logical study of the art—for it is 
an art, and a most difficult one at that - 
forces me/ 1 he observed to a representative 
of The Strand Magazine, "to arrive at 

INK. [RmelitidmS. 

the conclusion that in the method of many 
men responsible for the training of football 
teams there is a regrettable tendency to 'cram.* 

41 1 believe in looking after the mental 
easiness of the men under my charge quite 
as much as their bodily welfare, I am never 
so confident in the abilities of the Brentford 
Bees as I am when they step on to the field 
with contented minds. The hard, gruelling 
process which makes a man physically fit is 
apt to make him mentally unfit, and this, as 
1 have said, is fatal to good play. To train 
a football team successfully, the trainer 
should be, as a general rule, sparing in the 
amount est work hi 1 sets his men in perform. 
Give them just enough to keep them in good 
bodily condition, but try to see that each man 
is happy. 

" When the Bees were about to meet 
Liverpool in the English Cup competition 
last season, I strove might and main to keep 
every man's mind absolutely free from worry. 
1 tried to interest them and keep them from 
dwelling too much on the terribly hard fight 
before the til. They had never had to meet 
such a powerful organization as Liverpool, 
and I was anxious to keep dow T n any tendency 
to the equivalent of strffee-fright. Therefore, 
I made it my business to make the men happy. 

"The discipline exercised should be 

P**> R Aktrtdg* 




Photo. J. E R&&* 

hhfjh. WntofcUL 






II. Cp chatt% 


Photo. ErsmerAr RutiW*. 

w. bit AFX*, 


/^0*0 </. A fV-rjf. 

• . C MtL&Sp 



strong, hut I never believe in introducing 
any bullying or overbearing methods. When 
this is done no trainer can expect good 
results. Treat the men gently but firmly, 
and never allow them to forget that you are 
paid to train them and that you are to all 
intents and purposes master, 

" It is unwise before a big match to give 
any player a sort of curtain-lecture, and to ply 
him with instructions as to what should be 
done and what should be left undone. The 
better policy is to laugh and joke with a man 
who you are particularly anxious should do 
his best, and keep his mind from a too morbid 
contemplation of the struggle in front of him. 

M The tendency of the professional foot- 
baller nowadays is to play with his brains as 
well as with his feet, and it is for this reason 
that I advocate the paying of some attention 
to the mental side of training." 

44 I consider," remarked Mr, W, Draper, 
the able trainer of the Queen's Park 
Rangers, " that the hardest time for a trainer 
is before the season commences, when he 
has to get the men fit enough to get through 
a game, and still have a little left to work on. 

After the season has once commenced, how- 
ever, very little training is needed, especially 
for a man who is accustomed to take care of 
himself. A little ball-punching, skipping or 
sprinting, and short country walks are quite 
sufficient to keep a man thoroughly fit during 
the season. When a man shows signs of 
stateness, I find a couple of days' rest and a 
Turkish bath bring him up as fresh as ever 
on Saturday." 

Mr. J. Elliott, who has been associated 
with the Everton Football Club for seventeen 
years as player and trainer- — the last eight 
as principal trainer- has his own views as 
to what is required to keep men fit for the 
arduous eight months of the football season. 
44 It must never be forgotten that it is not 
like getting men ready for one event, and 
so a trainer has to guard against overtraining, 
which makes a man stale and unable to give 
of his best. 

11 In the first place, the player has to be 
studied individually, Some men require hard 
training, and can stand it the whole season 
through. Others need little beyond the 
necessity of living a regular life and taking 

i '* 

Ti fc'^ 



Original frnm 






for the 

amount of exercise necessary 

J I -being of every man. 

"Players are called together about a month 

tore the season commences. Those who 
ave during the recess put on an abnormal 
unt of tissue have to be brought down 
their normal weight, while others who are 

M given that way have their muscles stiffened 

'put them in trim. 

"" After the season's opening training should 
be hard- Twice a week walks are 
arranged, the limit being eight miles each 
time, but some men are not sent so far. 
Occasional sprinting is good, but pumps 
should not be donned more than twice a 
^ek- Light gymnasium work is indulged 
in, but no strong-man business is required. 
A swim in salt water once a week (not 
oftener) is good and to be recommended ; 
*od now and again the players have a certain 
amount of practice with the ball. Of course, 
in special cases a harder regime is followed, 
but no two men follow exactly the same 

" The greatest aids to a player are a regular, 
steady mode of living and a reasonable 
quantity of good plain food, well cooked. 

There should be no late nights, and a man 
should rise at a fixed time in the morning 
after enjoying eight to nine hours 1 sleep* 
Smoking is permissible, but only in the 
strictest moderation, and the same may be 
said in regard to intoxicants." 

Mr, G, W. Pay, who has trained the Bristol 
Rovers during the last ten seasons, thus 
describes his method of work : — 

"Our nun report themselves about three 
weeks before the seas* in o[>ens 4 Hard work 
is then indulged in to decrease the weight 
of some and to harden those who have 
not filled out so much during the close 

" In the opening weeks a trainer has to 
get to know the temperament of the men 
under him ; then he can use his own judg- 
ment as to the way to act with each* A 
great point in football training is to have 
confidence in your men, and they in return 
will have confidence in you. Another thing, 
and the most important, is to be firm, fair, 
and just. 

" All hard work ought to be as good as 
over when the season starts, for with a match 

W 4*> *> *& 


PW* F & O. StvtrL 

W. LAW5£>tf t 


Fnoto, W . ft. (AftC* 

L$ W* PAY, 

Pkoio. B0*r <* &mi. 

g. ^urinal from J; M *"^ W - 



1 66 


<i. cok, 

J. g, Mcpherson, 







Photo, f. Santom-, 

Ptoto J, Tavfor. 

fAato. IF. .PAtlTrip. 

Pkobi. Dcrtak& 

every week, and sometimes two, players only 
want light work. Running, ball practice, and 
plenty of good field work for the opening 
training ; then, for the lighter, a mixture of 
punch -ball, dumb-bells, Indian clubs, and 
skipping- ropes. A little sprinting every week 
is id so beneficial. But always bear in mind, 
do not kill a man to keep him fit ; what will 
make some men will cripple others. There 
is such a thing as overtraining, which will 
make a man stale, languid, and unable to 
play his usual game. 

" If a player will only look after himself, 
take good solid food, good sound sleep, 
tobacco (if he uses it) in moderation, and 
stout for dinner and supper, it will be a 
pleasure to himself and his employers." 

One of the oldest, if not the very oldest, 
Association football trainer in the country, 

Mr. William Dry-den, writes from Brighton: 
" According to some people, football is 
played with the feet ; according to others, it 
is played with the hands. In my opinion it 
is played with the head* In no game is a 
quick intelligence and co-operation so neces- 
sary. A man can go to sleep at cricket, but 
he ought to have no time to wink at football. 
Anything, therefore, that will make a man 
alive — keenly alive — is good ; and anything, 
on the other hand, that dulls htm is bad. 
But a single man is only a single part of the 
machinery. I believe there is less art in 
training your men than in choosing your 
team* Every piece of the machinery ought 
to fit into its right place ; unless it does this 
all the oiling in Lhe world won't make smooth 
and efficient running. The trouble with 
many of the teams nowadays is that they are 
ill-fitted and over-oiled" 



[ AvnoT' <£ Semi. 

N,.i K _To Mr, A, llireh. ih* whk (miner of the Crystal Pake* l«m 4 we are indeed for the photographs of WbalT 
practice which accompmiy th«* torching article, As Mr. Birch point « out t they illustrate rery clearly the exerci*« he otfMier* 
iwtJiMry in training successfully a team of footballers. 

by Goo 

Original from 


By J. M. Hay. 


N town Bibi went to University 
Monday lectures open to the 
public, to discussions on 
universal suffrage, and despised 
babies. There were clubs 
where kindred girls read papers 
on the emancipation of women by way of a 
golf stick, a vote, and a blouse. 

" Bibi," said her aunt, " has been educated 
within an inch of her life, can't sew or cook, 
hates crowds and dancing men ; she doesn't 
hate all men ; she simply doesn't consider 

With a petulant prettiness that was* the 
envy of older girls, the ambition of younger 
who wished they had her daring, her beauty, 
and her "simply lovely things," and was 
maddening to young men, she airily dis- 
missed her popularity. 
" Oh, yes ; all these boys are very nice ; 

1 couldn't bear any that weren't, but " 

To less fortunate girls the " but " meant 
that she could nod to any of the nice boys, 
and the avenue of marriage was opened up. 

She had two brothers, one older than her 
twenty summers, and one a child, Boy. 
The older one said of her, " Our Bibi has the 
important and difficult job of appearing 
charming — a sort of princess ; but if she 
doesn't look out she'll remain a princess or a 
queen without a kingdom." 

Plainly he referred to marriage. Bibi 
sniffed in subtle scorn. She liked to dream 
of herself as one who lingered on the edge of 
the steep cliff of love, peering curiously over ; 
a pioneer of emotion, standing on the hinter- 
land of desire ; a Venus Cortez on Darien 
eyeing the Pacific of affection. It was a sea 
always warmed with the sun of men's regard. 
Further, she thought she knew all other 
deeps of life, though her outlook on life was 
really that of a young girl's on war who 
hums a martial air in a garden of roses, and 
has never seen the dust of the trampling of 
an army. 

Many young men looked on afar off, and 
*ere troubled with longing of the gracious 
fragrance of her face, the wonderful beauty 
of her, and loved her for her lips, her eyes, 
her abundance of soft, gold - coloured 
hair. Not a few of them, greatly daring, 

were presented, and so crept nearer, and 
wondered still more from this little way off — 
"a sure-enough temptation" they all swore 
to touch her— even her hand. By this they 
did not mean more than reverence, and 
worship for her beauty. She was made to 
be adored, and all paid tribute to her as they 
would to the Elgin marbles, a Botticelli, or 
the intolerable glory of a sunset. Several of 
the young men had read Keats ; one had 
been to the Louvre, Paris ; all had seen in 
what manner evening was beautiful. 

Her aunt was a sort of Greek chorus to 
her, and explained her in every way. 

" These," and she indicated young men in 
flannels who carried tennis rackets and 
hovered within eye-shot, " these do not 
attract her ; personality and intellect appeal ; 
she complains of their lack ; she sits with 
pouting mouth and laughing eyes before 
them, and they think she's laughing at them. 
You see," went on her aunt, out of her 
vasty store-house of femininity and wisdom, 
"it's a girl's business to amuse men, not 
to bore or repel them, or at least not to 
make them think she's making fun of them. 
Besides," she added, crisply, " these young 
men come and tell me things ; they make 
themselves heroes or martyrs, and I'm 
supposed to tell Bibi ; it is a nuisance." 

The aunt should have added that at times 
Bibi relaxed into raillery with such as she 
knew. She said she did not easily get 
acquainted with men or they with her ; in 
the eyes of other girls there was the proof of 
a legion of admirers and acquaintances. 
She fobbed them off. Douglas Robertson, 
a gilded youth whose father had made 
much money in scrap-iron, and who called 
on her in town, was amongst others of 
# a crowd who at the coast town worshipped 
her. Visibly he got thinner and paler. 

She sailed with him on a day and he uttered 
the innocence of his soul before her. He 
was all but prostrate in body and in spirit. 

" Oh, dear, yes," she replied. " I see you 
every day — passing ; you're always before 
me ; always in my vision ; the apple of my 
eye." He became limp and pulled wildly ; 
followed her tart observations on the rowing 
as she toyed with the tiller-ro^es. " You'll 
put us on the rocks , really -yob™HouM 

^. — ' 

1 68 


to swim, Douglas/* She chided him as a child, 
and regarded him with untroubled eyes. 

" It fj a pity/' her aunt had once observed 
of her, "a great pity, Tor she's a splendid 
girl, and if the right man comes along and 
knows how to take her he shall be as a god." 

Mowbray Paulin went down to the sea to 
paint, and painting on the foreshore made 
quick friends with Boy. Now Bibi hunted 
fur Hoy and ran him to cover by the side of 
Mowbray Paul in* Boy had the enthusiasm 
and impetuosity of childhood, 'and as soon 
as he saw the girl in white dress and straw 
hat he ran to her and dragged her forward. 

" This is our Bibi j she doesn't like men, 
but she's got to like you 'cause I do." 

"this is otrR bibi; she doesn't like men 

Both were embarrassed, and both laughed 
simultaneously — he breezily, she with little 
sound, but with mirth. Then she held out a 
frank hand and reproved Boy. 

The man, co&tlflSI and eoHarless, stood at 
his easel ; she peeped to see a wonderful 
representation of the bay with all its circum- 
stance of sea-life. 

11 1 heard of you," the man said, abruptly, 
" from a friend of mine here \ you are from 

His eyes danced, 

"Yes, from Glasgow — a city of many 

He admitted it with a laugh. 
11 Yes, but you'll not get lost there ; a friend 
made is a friend to keep, I'm of there too — 
of the Glasgow School.*' 

This was different from her daily dole of 
flattery ; besides, the man was stanch in 
friendship, it appeared. 

" I've heard further that yours is a name 
to conjure with ; of course, this has been 
from ardent youths. I wonder how much 
admiration has coloured their views ? " 

She certainly wanted to 
be angry with his direct- 
ness* He had only spoken 
a few words, and yet he 
was pretty personal. But 
there was something lurk- 
ing in the corner of eye 
and mouth — humour and 
a fine toleration— as she 
studied him an estimating 
momuit. Instead of a 
rebuff, she said :- — 

"Let me give you a dis- 
passionate view, then," 

He broke in : "You are 
too much like an Oriental 
poet - philosopher there ; 
none but them judge 
beautiful women dispas- 
sionately ; you must not 
Omar Khayyam yourself." 
This was a check, but 
there was a subtle and 
delicate flavour of pleasure 
in it ; to her, too, he 
meant to attribute beauty. 
She continued, hasti ly : — 
u She has good health, 
good spirits ; is afraid of 

becoming fat " 

"Too modest by far: 
allow me the inventory, 
please," he said.] 

"Item— Grey eyes with 
a hidden seriousness," 

He checked off each item on his fingers 
with a brush s and she saw they were lean and 

u Item — A face that would have launched 
a thousand ships, 

14 Item— Hbji- tike Ro'ssetti's golden corn. 
" ^^E^J^OF^te^.^l^eve + 



" item — A figure that the wasted gods of 
Greece would have fought over. 

u Pardon," he continued. " I vouch for 
all the items save the fourth, which I've 
heard by the idle rumour of the bazaar. 
For it I substitute my own : Item — A heart 
as beautiful and rare as — as — edelweiss." 

" All guesses, and the most of them wrong. 
A thousand ships, indeed ! One poor little 
boat of Douglas Robertson's. Flatterer ! " 
She held up a warning finger. "Gross 
flatterer ! " 

"At least I am great in my flattery." 

"Come, Boy," she said, and walked slowly 
off. Going, she called over her shoulder: 
" Do your fingers never get tired painting ? " 

As she went up the gravelled walk to the 
villa where she lived she carolled. 


The friendship grew and deepened. To 
her all others were boys with fresh faces. 
Nor passion, nor pain, nor any knowledge of 
life or death had set its hall-mark on them, 
but peace sat quiet as a dove and was ruffled 
only by pleasure. 

Here was another man ; here a face scored 
with lines ; hollow, though she didn't know 
why; curves begot of vigil about the shadowed 
corners of the mouth ; a face that was a 
battlefield in her eyes. Interest in him grew 
upon her as she watched the deft brown 
hand with its brush place the scenery around 
on the canvas. She knew nothing of art ; 
was no more clever that way than the flan- 
nelled youths who wooed her mincingly. 
But the lean brown fingers of the man, the 
patient face and tired eyes, stirred what she 
deemed was pity in her. His face, too, had 
in it much unlooked-for sweetness. 

He was altogether different from the other 
men of her " set " — no hesitancy in life any 
less than in the steady look of his eyes. He 
was seasoned, sure ; together with the tan 
and breadth and depth of a roving life there 
was a lift in his head, a soaring lift, which 
she cherished as being beautifully boyish and 

The thought of him, as the summer deep- 
ened, dwelt with her, followed her, dogged 
her in dreams, a sweet pain. Sometimes she 
wondered what his home hours were — if he 
were solitary over his pictures, if he brooded 
upon his paintings, and saw visions ; or was 
but a mere prosaic individual of a filthy pipe 
and slippers out at heel, as her own elder 

But in any case she knew his strength just 
*here she herself was weak. With her boyish 

Vol. mxHl-22. 

admirers, where she was feeble they were 
feebler, in the hope of gaining the grace of her 
glance. They had none of them his grave 
tones and eye of rebuke. This unobtrusive 
person who often spoke to her in a way she 
did not understand was essentially a man. 

" You're making eyes at fate," he said once 
(she did manage to find opportunites of visit- 
ing his part of the beach). " There's Ralston 
quite off his batting form because of you, and 
that young whelp Robertson, with several bags 
of gold, is ardently burning to lay them at your 
feet." He regarded a moment musingly the 
peeping toe of her shoe. Then came one ol 
his sudden changes which attracted and 
puzzled her. The dalliance died in his eyes. 

" Your smile's as good as flowers ; wish I 
could paint it ; pYaps you're right ; pYaps 
it is not good you should be married soon ; 
let's all have a share yet awhile. It will be 
a woeful day for our world when you become 
wise with love, but — but," there was deli- 
cate hesitancy ; she felt he was moved, and 
she thrilled to the tones of his voice, " but it 
will be heaven for the one man ; he shall be 
as a god." He had used her aunt's very 
words. For a moment his eyes were 
embattled ; his mouth was pleading ; the 
stern mail which covered his passion was 
cast aside, and she saw with widened eyes a 
beauty break from his face. She was 
troubled and felt his face perilous. 

"I am afraid of myself when you speak 
like that," she said. 

In the secrecy of her chamber that night 
she fought no fight, but alloWfed the con- 
queror to enter. But still she knew not it 
was love. In a little while the touchstone 
came and she knew. 


Boy was not as one without hope — he did 
not exactly know why ; but perhaps it was 
because Bibi was wont to whisper to him 
now. in a shy way about Big Boy Chum — 
a way not used of her. 

He clasped little hands round plump little 
knees, swaying, and regarded Big Boy Chum, 
whom he wanted to tell that he had been 
lonelier than usual to-day. He was often a 
lonely little boy, for mother and nurse were 
careful and severe, and commanded him not 
to play with other nasty village boys. 

This man was his Big Boy Chum, for 
though he didn't play with him he allowed 
him to squeeze the wee tin tubes of paint. 
Big Boy Chum had, as weJI, " hundreds of 
pockets," Boy fold Bibi, full of strange things, 
and the top right hand one was for ^^—^ 



He carried him on his high shoulders, walked 
down the beach and placed him in the 
boat ; he taught him to row and to 
fish; to hold the tiller when it was almost 
a calm. 

But especially last week he took his 
"photo," he whispered to Bibi, with brushes 
out of "the hundred pockets," and he had to 
sit very still on a rock with his toffee — a long, 
long time — and he was to come another 
two, three — oh, ever so many days before 
it could be finished. So had he come 

Boy ! " greeted 
Big Boy 

and Boy f with 
disquieting sud- 
denness, turned 
and sat on his 

Big Boy Chum 
looked up. 

" What's up, 
Boy ; aren't you 
coming to speak 
to me to-day ?" 

"I'm being 
good, 1 ' said Boy, 

Big BoyChuni 
looked at the 
swaying figure, 
the little hands 
round the brown 
knees, the little 
grave face, and 
forbore to laugh, 
He searched for 
and held aloft 

" Boy, come 

" Is it safe, Big 
Boy Chum ? " 

T h e man 
looked puzzled, 
crossed over to 

the rock, and hoisted Boy on his shoulders. 
Boy felt the strength of that camaraderie* 
for he had been excessively lonely that day. 
Near upon tears, he cried from his starved 
soul : — 

" Bibi says I must lie awf'ly good an 1 sit 
still and not bother you " — the lips quivered 
— "else 111— I'll not get my photo. But I'd 
nearly rather be on your shoulder, Big Boy 


Chum, nor get my photo," he went on, with 
brave confiding. 

The man took him from his shoulder and 
drew him between his knees, 

"Yes Boy, it's safe. Don't you mind 
Bihi." He felt great pity for the lonely child ; 
children above others should never be lonely. 
" III tell you what, Boy ; let's go out in the 
boat to-day— we'll have a regular lark," 

And Bibi stepped down from behind ihe 

li Salaam, monsieur ! And so you dare call 

me Bibi — and 
before Boy, 
Oh, shame P 
she pouted, 
" Really f I quite 
believe you've 
been calling me 
that all along to 

The man 
snuggled Boy 
closer to him, 
and asked : — 

"Boy, isn't 
Bibi a glorious 
name ? M Then 
he became very 
daring and 
looked at her in 
the eyes. 

"Some time, 
Bibi, 1 should 
like to rail you 
i hat to yourself." 
T he name 
sounded very 
pleasant and 
sweet from his 

"H f m! Its 
h y pothenca! ; 
and it seems you 
have already 
done so," Her 
eyes wavered be 
fore his, and his 
hear l leapt at the 
look in them j he 
saw victory and godship a tar off 

So Boy on Big Boy ("hum's shoulder went 
down all glorious to the st-a sucking toffee, 
and by reason of a gentle south-west wind 
the day was excellent in quiet. As they 
drifted out of the bay the glance of the man 
and the woman struck across, met, and held, 
and.iidk0VrlHii«tv t^MUii^Jfneasiire love had 





£i Pltfickly certain ? ,? asked Boy 
" Puffickly," replied the man. 

home at 

l( puffickly ; you'll carry the photo 
the end of the week/' 

"Big Boy Chum, I love you 'most better'n 

Boy was sitting drowsing, his arm about 
the tiller, and the man was forward painting 
him, and dreaming, 

The loch is not steady in its calm, but 
broken with treacherous hill squalls. Far in 
the south the horizon crinkled and darkened; 
unsteady puffs came slatting the sails, and 
the water began to sing alongside the yacht 
Big Boy Chum called directions how to steer 
as he packed up. 

■'Over for a day, Boy,'' he said. 

Presently, like a beast, a squall leapt off 
the hills and smothered the yacht. She 
heeled, quivered, the w T ind whistling and 
screaming in her cordage. 

u Steady, Boy, s-t-e-a-dy ! " 

Boy was unused to the weight of the tiller; 
he let it go, and the boat went nose down on 
the wind. On the tail of the first a second 

When the man came to himself he was 
paddling about \\\ a flat calm. The wind, as 
if its work had been done, whimpered and 
sighed away. 

A little on his right a head bobbed up ; he 
saw the whites of two eyes rolling in terror ; 
and again Boy went down. The man seemed 
to wait an eternity as he peered into the dark- 
green water below him. Again the head 
came to the surface and he clutched at it. 

M Boy, Boy, get vour arms round my 

Boy lay with closed eyes and blue lips. 

The man, treading water, held Boy afloat, 
and searched the sea for wreckage. It was 

"Boy, Boy!" and his voice trembled in 
spite of himself. Boy's eyelids fluttered, 
opened, and closed in a sigh. 

il Boy ! " he whispered, almost fiercely. 
The clear blue eyes opened again, stared 
at the sky, and a smile stole over the face. 

"I t'ink," he lisped, "I- 1 t'ink I was 
dleaminV 1 

The man looked at the puckered little face 
and, in spite of their situation, smiled. 

lf£?j ,v \lsr 



squall came with a white roar. The boat 
was reaching as if in deadly fear. The wind 
throttled her on the beam, and before Big 
Koy Chum could leap aft to the tiller she 
sagged forward, broken-kneed, as the spin 
drift rose in a cloud, tilled, and went sailing 
an under the water. 


" Boy," he said, gently, " put your arms re 
my neck — so, 17 

Big Boy Chum had been working coat less 
and collarless ; he wore light deck-shoes* 
All seemed well . as he settled down to a 
long, steady QHftftafcfeUfi He purred in 



u Marching, Boy, oh> marching ; we'll be in 
home for tea yet." 

Boy lay somnolent, a dead weight, and his 
teeth chattered with cold. He had infinite 
trust every way in Big Boy 

The man swam for a 
long time in silence, swam 
easily, strongly. At a flash- 
ing thought he half-heaved 
himself out of the water 
and saw the shore far off. 
He went hot and cold* 
The tide was on the ebb, 
too, he knew. Boy was 
sobbing gently, grieving 
because of the immediate 
water and the cold. He 
had no fear of death, 
"I'm awfly sleepy," he 
said once. 

"Cheerily, Boy, 
cheerily," was the answer, 
"Home and Bibi soon," 
and with set teeth took 
up again the steady breast- 

The evening sun poured 
in his eyes, blinding him , 
it made his temples ache, 
and there was a beat, 
beat, beat throbbing inside 
his ears. A cloud came 
over the sun, shutting out 
its furnace -like rays, and 
the man struggled out of 
the water and looked- 

11 My God ! Oh, my 
God ! " he moaned, and 
saw death in the sea. The 
stroke now was not so 
fresh, yet he was steadily 
gaining; he saw the curve 
of the shore. Hope, like 
a strong river, poured 
through him. 

11 Coming in, Boy," he 
whispered ; " slogging 

Boy's head hung limply, and his arms 
were like bands of steel round the man's 
neck, In a little he began to feel the ebb- 
tide, slowly yet, but steadily fighting him. 
To stop in the stroke was to lose ground. 
Sun and sweat were blinding him. 

» Boy— we— mustn't go out— this tide." 
The words came in gasps, for he now seemed 
pushing as against a wall, and his easy 
breathing was gone, A thought took being 


him that the two of them could never 

reach against the tide; without Boy it would 

be fairly easy for himself. 

"I mustn't! O God, I mustn't ! " He 
fought against it as against 
an enemy seeking his life. 
The awful ebb was 
grinding the strength out 
of him ; his arms felt like 
lead. As he started ever)' 
fresh stroke he wondered 
if he could finish it. His 
head drooped with sheer 
exhaustion, and he took a 
mouthful of water. The 
stinging salt revived him, 
and he struggled for a few 
strokes, Boy was strangling 
him, choking him to death ; 
but for him he was sure 
of sweet life, and there was 
so much in life to be done. 
A limit seemed to come to 
his powers of endurance ; 
it was excessive pain to 
move hts arms ; the en- 
feebled stroke jerked, 
twitched, fluttered — he 
seemed to have been swim- 
ming for years — the arms 
stiffened, stopped ; the 
greedy tide drove them 
back. With a terrific effort 
he lunged forward. In the 
blinding sweat and sun he 
saw the pleasant shore. 

" O God, I mustn J t ; 
she'd say I killed him, I 
mustn't, I mustn't," he 
kept on relating to him- 
self: his arms fluked badly, 
spluttered, beating the sea. 
In a last despairing remedy 
he tore Boy's arms from 
his neck and let him go. 
Boy floundered, and with 
a whimper sank. The man 
watched the place like a 
wild beast on the scent, 

and lay panting, gasping. Heaven ! how sweet 

the rest was I 
i4 I mustn't, 

and somehow 

Boy's words : — 

" tiig Boy Chum, I love you 'most better'n 


A dark head bobbed up and he grasped it. 
" Bov," he gasped, " round— my — neck, tJ 

butlJH^I^^-it^^C^MN The tide was 

' he repeated, fighting desire, 
to his dull brain came back 



carrying them seaward; again in a surge 
rhe appalling thought to save himself came 
upon him. He thought himself going mad 
now, and felt he had not strength to resist 
the thought much longer. There was a roar 
as of a cataract in his ears, and the anti- 
phon of that thunder unceasingly repeated : 
14 Let Boy go ! Let Boy go ! " 

** Mustn't, mustn't ! " he kept saying, and 
took Boy's hair in his mouth, as a dog 
catches a drowning man. He had ceased 
swimming now, and they were drifting sea- 
ward in a broad band of golden sunset. 

Even now Boy was threatening his life, so 
weak had he become, but he only set his 
teeth the firmer in Boy's hair. 

rt Mustn't ! O God I— mustn't — Bibi— 
mustn't ! Ji 

Lights were dancing before his eyes ; the 
water was over his chin, 

They were carried up from the boat by 
tall fellows of the sea, and the maidservants 
in the hall stood aghast, curious, Down the 
stairway came Bibi, and she gave a squeak of 
sick dismay at the sight of Boy. When she 
saw the withered, wet face and dripping hair 
of Big Boy Chum she put up her left hand to 
her breast and moaned ; then she put her 
hands before her face and whispered : — 

u Are they dead ? ?b 

One, a capable, grave fellow* in a jersey, 
said no, but it was a near shave ; a few 
seconds more and it would have been all up 
with them ; and he told her of the struggle 
his crew had seen as they rowed to the 
rescue. She dropped her hands and her 
eyes shone down on the two limp figures, 
and as she looked Big Boy Chum opened his 
eyes and saw her passion of grief 

They bore them up the stair and laid 
them each on a bed 

"How was it — how?" she panted, 
and they repeated again the tale of the 


11 * Love you J most better'n anybody 1 — I 
cant 1" he gasped. u Mustn't ! tf he spluttered, 

11 mustn't — Bibi — -honour IT The tired 

head drooped on the sea as on a pillow, man 
and boy went under, and bubbles rose and burst 
above them into sun-wrought jewels, . , , 

struggle, and one said he had to cut Boy's 
hair, so dead-set were the teeth bitted into it, 
and so ended, " Ah ! but he is a man." 

The doctor was sent for ; restoratives were 
brought, and she w^.-; left alone with the man. 
Under the reif^ffftvgfPig BojfjSfWiuin opened. 



his hand to her 
as a child, and 

his eyes and knew he was at the door of 
heaven, for Bibi was leaning over his couch, 
and one arm was underneath his neck. 

Again the dim eyes closed, and as the 
blackness of unconsciousness came ujKin 
him he put out 


she sobbed tear- 
less over him. 

For days 
Death stood in 
the doorway and 
the man's mind 
wandered, and 
Bibi, terrified at 
the blazing eyes, 
heard the broken 
tale of the 
struggle ; and 
there was a 
splendour upon 
his face, 

u Mustn't go 
out this tide — 
there's something 
I've to tell her; 
must see her face 
to face ; for my 
soul's sake I 
must. 1 ' He tried 
to cry out, and 
raised his arms, 
but there was 
no strength in 

11 Mustn't let 
go, Boy; mustn't 
— she'd say I 
killed you, and 
I'd rather face 
death than that 

— Boy," he whispered, fiercely, and she 
sobbed brokenly at the tortured depths of 
gloom in his eyes, 4 * Boy, Boy, it would kill 
her.' J She leaned over, her tears falling upon 
his face, and kissed him twice upon the lips. 
He struggled up. 

( 'The shore; a wee bit now/' He fell 
back on the bed, and the swelling in his 
voice died to a whisper. " Going home, son ; 
go i ng — h o m e — goi ng — Bibi/" 

There was a great light in his face. 

11 Going, Boy — Bibi — mustn't let go 
mustn't — Bibi — honour." He was silent ; it 
seemed as if he were blind : and she put her 
arms about him and sobs pierced in her 
throat like daggers. 

by Google 

" Oh ! Oh ! don't— don't die without me/' 
she cried. * . . 

On the evening of that day lie muttered 
her name, smiling ; the doctor came and 
said the fever was gone. The man and Boy 

were safe ; he- 
went off whistl 
ing, Evening 
crept like a haze 
and lightened on 
Big Boy Chum's 
eyes, as Bibi 
came like a rose 
to the bedside, 
and he saw love 
unutterable in 
her eyes. She 
took his hand, 
and they spake 
as lovers use. 

Once she said : 
" I never knew 
what love was till 

His sudden 
grasp hurt her 

" How long 
since, madame— 
tell me, please ? 7 
"When I saw 
them carry you 
into the hall 
Oh, if vou had 
died I M 

11 Gently, my 
Bibi, gently/ 1 for 
he felt the tears in 
her voice. " We 
went down to 
death that time, 
Boy and I, and 
it refused us, because of you " — the voice was 
not quite steady — " and when you saw Boy 
and me and our helplessness, the springs of 
motherly passion and love were unloosed, 
and broke forth and bathed me " — he stopped 
and looked at her — "they shall heal me," he 
ended simply. 

Her averted face turned slowly towards 
him : illumination was kindling in her soul ; 
she gave a little sob of pleasure. 

"Oh ! Mowbray/' and she blinded his face 
with her hair as their lips met He was still 
weak, and relaxed to her arms about him, his 
head on her bosom ; to her low tones of con- 
solation and tenderness. She was mothering 
him with a huj^rv iove. 





cheeks, so that there were twenty-four kisses 
It is said that the sound of the 




valley of 
a poetical 


salutations was heard 
Chamonix ; but that may 

It must be admitted, of course, that not 
all guides at all times exemplify all ihe 
virtues. Most of ihem are sober men. They 
tell you that beer 

"cuts the legs," ^ZTZ^^T 

and they some- 
times sny the same 
of nine, both white 
and red. But one 
does sometimes 
hear of guides who 
support themselves 
in perilous places 
with the courage 
commonly called 
Dutch. There 
was a case of a 
guide who did so 
on the Dent 
Blanche. He 
was the only guide 
whom the party 
were taking ; and 
he had his flask 
of Kirsch in his 
pocke^ and he 
sipped at it steadily 
as he went. It 
helped his nerves 
for the time, but 
the reaction fol- 
lowed in due 
course. When at 
last he scrambled 
up on to the sum- 
Bit of the moun- 
tain, he fell upon his knees and invoked the 
Virgin. If the Blessed Mother of God, he 
cried, would only help him safely down into 
the valley, never, so long as he lived, would 
he climb a mountain again. He did get 
down, thanks to the skill of his employers, 
who wrote some very outspoken observations 
m his Fiihrer Buch. 

Another story of a guide who loved the 
bottle too welf is told by Leslie Stephen. 
The man in question was descending the 
path from the Eismeer to Grindelwald in a 
convivial condition. He blundered off the 
path at a point where it skirts a precipice, 
and fell vertically for about a hundred feet 
on to a bed of rock, " It would have been 
a less dangerous experiment/ 1 Leslie Stephen 

^}\ " to step from the roof of the tallest house 


in London to the kerbstone below," But 
Michel merely lay all night where he had fallen, 
and in the morning shook himself, got up, and 
walked home, with no broken bones. Whence 
Leslie Stephen draws two morals. The first is, 
li Don't get drunk if you have to walk along 
the edge of an Alpine cliff 1 ' ; the second is r 
" Get drunk if you are likely to fall over an 

Alpine cliff" 
= ^ — : ■ _ , r l- =s Morals apart, 

the story proves 
that Alpine guides 
are men of mar- 
vellous physical 
strength,and many 
stories illustrative 
of their strength 
are told. The best 
is that of the Ober- 
lander Lauener, 
who was leading 
his patron up a 
steep ice slope in 
which they had to 
cut steps. There 
was a huge stone 
embedded in, the 
ice, and Lauener 
thought that he 
could safely tread 
on it Totus horror 
it moved, and 
began to fall in the 
direction of his 
comrade. Quick 
as lightnings he 
stepped back into 
the ice step which 
he had just left. 
Then, standing 
on one leg, he 
jerked his companion out of his foothold 
and swung him aside, like the weight at the 
end of a pendulum, while the rock descended 
in his track, 

This is an example, of course, not only 
of strength, but also of competence and 
ready resource. We come nearer to the 
comedy of climbing when the guide— or the 
porter, as it may be — is not so competent. 
There are stories of porters whom rough 
guides have impatiently kicked over berg- 
sc brands which they were too nervous to 
jump ; and there are stories of porters who, 
presuming to act as guides without authority, 
have made a queer use of the rope. 

Parties crossing glaciers, it may be ex- 
plained, in case anv reader does not know, 
tie thems^p^ 1 ^^;^^ of five 







yards or so in order that if one of them falls 
into a crevasse the others may promptly pull 
him out of it But Mrs. Aubrey Le Blond 
tells a delightful story of two Germany who 
were taken up the Cima di Jazzi by a 
beginner. The beginner knew that he had 
to bring a rope, and he knew that he had to 
make some use of it ; but that was the limit 
of his knowledge. He hesitated, hoping that 
the Germans would give him a hint, but they 
were just as ignorant as he was. At last he 
took a desperate resolution. At the two 
ends of the rope he made two slip knots. 
He passed the two nooses round the necks 
of his two patrons, and, taking the cord by 
the centre, walked along, holding it in his 
hand. Luckily no one fell into a crevasse 
that day, or somebody would assuredly have 
been hanged by the neck till he was dead. 

On the way hack the guide met another 
party whom a friend of his was leading. 
He nervously asked his friend whether his 
method of roping was correct. Stifling his 
laughter, his friend assured him that every 
thing was in order. "I'm glad of that/' 
was the reply, il for I assure you these gentle- 
men have been cursing and swearing at me 
all day long/* 

Happily it is not always in such perilous 
style that the clumsiness of guideS contributes 
t© the comedy of climbing. 

An experience of my own is amusing to 
look back upon, though it was anything hut 

amusing at the time. 
We were going up 
a small mountain in 
the Saas-thal ; we 
were very thirsty, 
but decided to post- 
pone refreshments 
until we reached 
the top. The lunch, 
including two 
bottles of wine, was 
in the guide's ruck- 
sack. " Now for a 
drink," he said, with 
enthusiasm, swing- 
ing off his burden 
in a hurry. But 
alas! and alas! 
There was a " stone man " 
on the top of that moun- 
tain, and the careless fellow 
knocked the ruck - sack 
against it The bottles 
smashed ; the red wine 
soaked the comestibles and 
then trickled down the 
mountain side. And oh ! what a long, long 
descent we had before we came to water ! 
How gladly would we even have eaten frozen 
champagne, as Aloys Pol linger boasts that he 
did on the summit of Aconcagua ! 

There are stories, again, of the peremptory 
and domineering guide who figures as He 
Who Must Be Obeyed. The story, already 
told, of Zurbriggen punching his patron's 
head belongs to this category. A similar 
feat stands to the credit of Joseph Imboden ; 
and there is also the story of Joseph's treat- 
ment of a traveller who funked, not daring to 
quit a position of security on the rocks, 
"Take him by the feet and pull him down," 
culled Joseph to the attendant porter j and it 
was only when this indignity was actually 
offered to him that the climber recovered his 
courage. And, finally, there is the story of 
the guide who was discovered by another 
climbing party, not dragging a traveller down 
a mountain, but driving him up it, against 
his will and in spite of his protests, " Herr, 
he must go," was the answer to the obvious 
question. " He must go, for he has paid me 
in advance.' 1 

Sometimes, again, the comedy of climbing 
has its origin in the superstitions of the 
climbers. It has been mentioned that 
climbers have been mistaken for mining 
prospectors ; they have also been mistaken 
for evil spirits, A case occurred when 
Mr. Wh^jpHndato litis first ascent of the 




Matterhorn. There was another party on 
the mountain the same day on the Italian 
side* Mr. Whymper and his friends saw 
them and triumphed over them from the 
top, and his guide, Croz, yelled at them de- 
moniacally and rolled boulders down in 
their direction* 

They were frightened and turned back, 
and told a strange story when they 

came to Breuil. 
they said* " The 
abode of devils, 
them; they 
threw stones at 

Even the awful 
avalanche may 
sometimes con- 
tribute towards 
the gaiety of 
Mr. Gird I est one, 
who once 
boasted that he 
could climb 
without guides 
ha d trou bl e 
with one on 
aimost the first 
of his guideless 
excursions. He 
sat down to 
lunch in the 
track of an ava- 
lanche, and the 
avalanche inter- 
rupted his meal. 
He had just 
time to get up 
and jump out 
of the way t and 
when he looked 
round his lunch 
had disappeared 
for ever. 

Nor is the 
climber's lunch 
the only part of 
his equipment that 
times carried away. 

The legends are true," 
Matterhorn is indeed the 
We saw them ; we heard 


an avalanche has some- 
Mr. Girdlestone, when 
the avalanche carried away his bread and 
meat, may have felt less embarrassed than a 
celebrated lady climber did when an ava 
janche carried away her skirt, She had taken 
it off in order to negotiate some difficult 
rocks, and intended to resume it before 
returning to her hotel. But Fate decreed 

by LiC 


otherwise, and she had to return to the hotel 
in knickerbockers. 

The wind caused by the falling of the 
avalanche is also capable of producing 
ludicrous results, It is as violent, for the 
moment, as a cyclone, and operates much in 
the same way. There is an accredited c;ist.:, 
for instance, of an old woman whom such an 
atmospheric disturbance blew into the top of 
a pine tree. She clung to the branches and 
saved herself, but she had to sit in her pine 
tree for several hours, until the neighbours 

found her and 
helped her 

Nor should an 
account of the 
comedy of climb- 
ing omit some 
mention of the 
proceedings of 
Professor A ngelo 
Mosso on Monte 
Rosa. Professor 
Mosso is the 
greatest autho- 
rity in the world 
on mountain 
sickness. No- 
body knows for 
certain what 
mountain sick- 
ness is, or how it 
is caused ; but 
Signer Mosso 
has taken more 
trouble than any- 
body else to find 
out. u Fiat ex- 
perimenium in 
torpore vili" was 
his motto. He 
borrowed some 
soldiers from the 
Italian Govern- 
ment, and made 
them go through 
exercises with 
dumb-bells and other gymnastic appliances in 
the midst of the eternal snows. No doubt 
he has established valuable conclusions as 
to the effect of high altitudes upon the 
human physique ; but the spectacle of a 
row of military men "doing Sandow" on a 
glacier is not without its humorous aspects, 
and must have a very cheering effect upon 
those who witness it 

Original from 



By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 


T was Phene's fate always to 
have brilliant ideas which 
somehow came to grief when 
she started to carry them out. 

For instance, it had been a 
fine idea to buy her rich cousin 
Gwendolen's nearly new bicycle second-hand 
for half price ; but she had not foreseen the 
cost of bringing it over from Ireland. 
Gwendolen sent it in a crate, " Carriage for- 
ward " ; and when it arrived at Colwyn Bay, 
where the Nevilles were spending their brief, 
cheap, carefully-calculated holiday, Phene 
shed scalding tears, and had to borrow half a 
sovereign of the housekeeping money from 
her mother. 

It was the repentance following upon this 
ill-considered action which prompted the 
next fine idea. 

Phene was out of work. She was twenty- 
seven years old, and the family of children 
whom she had taught had all now been sent 
to boarding school. She was taking her holi- 
day sadly, feeling that a struggle lay before 
her — that new work, among strangers, must be 
sought immediately on her return to Liverpool. 
The borrowed half-sovereign seemed to 
demand desperate remedies. She conceived 
the bold idea of not going back at all — of 
getting a post in Wales, and saving her return 

She bought a local newspaper, and from 
several advertisements selected the follow- 

Miss Mostyn desires to meet with cultivated and 
competent young lady, liking a secluded country life, 
to undertake the education of her niece, aged nine. — 
Tan-y-Pont, Hebron, Nantfestyn. 

She knew quite well where Hebron was, 
along the celebrated Nantfestyn Valley. If 
she cycled to Bettws-y-Coed, and over the 
pass, she could go and interview Miss Mostyn 
in person. Then the bicycle might cease to 
be a white elephant in her mother's eyes, and 
become a domesticated, even a useful, animal. 

Phene was great on maps. She had the 
Reduced Ordnance ; and when she came to 
study it, she found a short cut. If she left 
the main road at Llanrwst, instead of going 
on to Bettws, she could strike the Nantfestyn 
road higher up. It was marked in red dots — 
possible for cyclists ; and in any case it was 
only three or four miles, and would save 
eight or nine. 

It was more than fifty miles there and 
back ; but the ride home was mostly down 

hill, she could take her time, and if she were 
home by ten her mother would not be 
anxious. She wrote to Miss Mostyn, asking 
for an appointment. A prim little letter 
came back, fixing a day, and Phene started 
in high spirits, only damped by a fast-falling 

And now ? 

She and her bicycle were wandering in 
darkness and rain, hopelessly lost ! 

The storm began it, She had to take 
shelter for long from its* pelting violence— 
from the thunder that rolled like artillery 
among the mountains, from the swishing 
cataract of hail that accompanied it. When 
it was over the sun broke out radiantly, 
and on she went, to discover, after a muddy 
mile or so, that her back wheel was punctured 
By the time this was mended it was already 
two o'clock, and she was no farther than 
Llanrwst. Into her short cut she plunged, 
and for one mortal hour pushed her machine 
up a hill that was almost a precipice. Hot, 
panting, weary, she yet forgot herself com- 
pletely in the beauty of the fern-lined 
woodland and magnificent blue mountain 
distances. Then came a parting of the 
ways — three roads before her in actual fact ; 
only one in her treacherous map. 

She could only choose by the direction in 
which the tracks appeared to run, and went 
patiently on until her path was level enough 
for her to mount and ride ; only to find, after 
a mile or two, that she had again punctured. 

The fates seemed hopelessly against her. 

Search revealed the fact that she had left 
the thorn which had caused her first mishap 
embedded in the outer cover. She was an 
expert puncture-mender ; but by the time this 
job was done thoroughly the sun was begin- 
ning to dip westwards in a most annoying 
manner. It was very vexatious that she 
must show herself hopelessly unpunctual in 
keeping an appointment ; but two punctures 
and a storm will account for much. She set 
her teeth and pushed on. 

And then, behold, her road vanished ! 
That is, it ceased to be a road close to a 
deserted quarry, and became merely a grassy 
track. She must inquire her way at the first 
cottage she came to. On she went, but 
slowly, for owing to the nature of the ground 
she could not ride ; and then, to her joy, a 
labourer approached her. Full of thankful- 
ness, she begged for directions. He shook 
his head with an embarrassed smile. 




" Dym Sa&uug" he muttered 

This was despairing. She said the words 
Hebron, Nantfestyn, distinctly, pointing for- 
wards. His eye lit up; he repeated the 
words, making signs that she must go back 
the way she had 
come. He 
pointed to the 
cycle, as though 
saying she 
could not ride 
it along the 
road she was 
following ; and 
after urgently 
waving her 
back let him- 
self into an ad- 
jacent gate and 
among the 

She must 
return to the 
and great slow 
tears gathered 
in P hene's 
luminous hazel 
eyes. She must 
go home; it 
was too late to 
keep her ap- 
pointment now. 
Back she went 
as far as the 
quarry, but 
when she got there she spied a road she had 
not previously noticed — a good wide, promis^ 
ing path, passing right over the hill in the 
required direction. She thought it would be 
quicker to take it and ride down to Bettws 
than to go hack to Llanrwst She had not 
gone far along her new route when r t he second 
storm burst upon her devoted head. Fortu- 
nately she was near a big rock which over- 
hung the path and gave her shelter. But 
when the tempest had raged with violence 
for some time she grew chilly and stiff: and 
after another period of waiting she realized 
that, though the fury of it had gone by, the 
rain did not mean to cease : it had set in for 
a wet evening. 

However, she must now push on steadily, 
wet or fine, and ignominiously take the train 
when she got to Bettws* 

The rain beat in her face, the gloomy, 
grey dusk deepened around, the low clouds 
blotted out the hills from view. After a 


while she knew that she must have again 
gone wrong. Once more her road trailed off 
into a hesitating track across a boggy 
meadow. She had been told there was 
much swampy ground in thest^ hills, and in 

the gathering 
night she felt 
nervous. Leav- 
ing her machine 
a moment she 
went onward a 
little to explore, 
and discovered 
to her joy that 
beyond the 
field her road 
revived* Again 
she wearily 
tramped for- 
ward, hoping 
against hope. 
But now at last 
the road made 
up its mind to 
finally desert 
her. When she 
found that it 
had decided 
upon becoming 
a foot - track, 
and ascending 
the huge flank 
of the great 
mountain that 
loomed by 
fits from the 

blanket of 
vapour about her, she knew she was hope- 
lessly lost and benighted and must seek 
shelter till dawn. 

With the knowledge her courage returned. 
She retraced her steps a little to the mouth 
of a grim cavern she had passed, overhung 
by tufts of fern. 

Lighted by her cycle lamp, she ventured 
to scramble over the heaps of debris that lay 
in the cave's mouth. Her light glanced over 
a vast space — a huge, abandoned slate quarry, 
the roof here and there upheld by mighty 
columns of the living rock, Its extent was 
far beyond the compass of her sight ; at her 
feet were terrifying pits of unknown depth. 
But away to the left a firm path led to a 
kind of shed, built against the beetling edge 
of the cavern. Cautiously advancing and 
peeping in she saw an old rusty stove, some 
benches, and a pile of dry, fragrant bracken, 
possibly stored there by some shepherd. 

This was the refuge tor her ! She had the 




scanty remains of her lunch with her to avert 
the pangs of hunger ; and the soft song of 
falling water guided her to a spring close by. 
She ate, drank, said her prayers, pulled off 
her wet skirt and hung it up, wriggled herself 
deep into the warm, soft fern, then, extinguish- 
ing her lamp, entrusted herself, with beating 
heart, to the darkness and the profound 
silence ; and in five minutes was soundly asleep. 
She could not have said why she woke up, 
widely and completely awake, all in a moment. 
The darkness about her was absolute, the 
stillness unbroken, but in tier consciousness 
was the idea that she had heard a sound. It 
seemed to her that she had slept some hours ; 
she was all in a glow of warmth, her bracken 
bed as comfortable as could be. What had 
awakened her? Holding her breath, she lay 
perfectly still ; and after a minute a sound, a 
distant tap, tap, tap, fell upon her ear, It 
was like the sound of miners at work. Was 
the quarry haunted by the spectres of men 
long dead, who worked by night ? She 
listened with shaking pulses ; tap, tap, t;*p T 
then a rasping scrape r something that sounded 
like a muffled exclamation in a human voice, 
and a ringing noise of metal falling on stone, 
as though the worker had dropped his tool- 
Almost immediately a vague, quivering circle 
of light was shot out 
over the upper portion 
of the vast ronof"; and 
then Fhene had well- 
nigh cried out in fear, 
for the colossal shadow 
of a man was thrown 
upon the light, and he 
was apparently walking 
down a perpendicular 
wall. This awful por- 
tent had driven her to 
the extreme limit of her 
powers of self-control, 
when she saw, by the 
shadow, that he had a 
rope tied about his 

The light bobbed 
and glimmered, then 
was hidden from her 
sight by some vast, in- 
tervening buttress ; and 
then she heard fall dis- 
tinctly on the silence 
the sound of the man's 
footsteps as he came to 
earth with a little run, 
and walked along — in 
what direction ? 

It must be one of the miners come to 
work. Then the quarry was not deserted, 
and it must be morning. Hut, glancing 
round to the place where she knew the cave's 
mouth to be, she saw only pitchy blackness. 
One thing at once presented itself to her 
mind as urgent and essential Springing up 
she felt in the gloom for her damp skirt, and 
put it on as one on a sinking ship may snatch 
a lifebelt, while all the time that footstep 
rang in her ears. 

The miner was whistling, stumbling along 
among the pits with heed fully lowered lump ; 
he was certainly approaching ; he rounded a 
corner ; he headed straight for the shed 
where Phene crouched, 

There was nothing for it but to await his 
coming. She was not frightened, but the 
notion that he too might have no Sasnaeg, 
and she in consequence be unable to explain 
herself, filled her with embarrassment 

She sat up as erect as might be on her 
fern couch ; and as he appeared in the 
doorway, lit up by the rays of his powerful 
lamp, she said, with dignity : — 

** I hope I do not startle you ? tf 

'iWhat the Good Lord ! " said the 

astounded new-comer, "Who in the work! 
are you ? " 



Phene's cheeks were suddenly aflame. 
She became dreadfully, acutely conscious of 
the bits of fern in her hair, of the whole 
impossible situation ; for this was no miner, 
but a man of her own class — a man with a 
hard jaw, a short black beard, and cynical 
eyes, much tanned, and dressed in rough 
clothes, with a handkerchief knotted round 
his throat, but unmistakable. 

" I'm — I'm sorry. HI go," she said, 
weakly, taking up her motor cap and picking 
wisps from her white golf jersey. 

'• No, no ; I'll go, of course ; that's my part 
—unless" — he paused — "unless I could be 
of any use. Could you tell me what's the 
matter? " 

41 1 got lost," said Phene, " and it rained 
so hard I couldn't get on, so I was be- 
nighted too. I came in here to wait till it 
grows light. I thought there was nobody 

11 Quite right," he said ; " there is nobody 
but me, and I don't want it known that I am. 
Is it impertinent to ask where you were 
going ? * 

"To Hebron." 

" To Hebron ? Then why in the 
world " 

11 Oh, I told you I had lost my way. You 
need not rub it in. I was trying a short cut," 
said Phene, petulantly. 

He laughed a little. " Well, anyhow, you 
can't find your way there in the dark," he 
said, rather as one soothes a fractious child. 
41 You must be cold and hungry, are you 

" I was sound asleep until you woke me," 
said the injured maiden. 

His lip curved again in a sort of smile ; he 
seemed to smile reluctantly, to laugh with 
difficulty. "See here," he said; "I know I 
look a pretty average ruffian, but I'm quite 
respectable, really. Won't you let me light 
you a fire and make you some cocoa ? " 

She stared. " Have you Aladdin's ring ? " 

"That's it. I'm the genie of the cave. 
Let me look after you. Don't I strike you 
as a harmless kind of person? I'm really 
quite domesticated and warranted quiet with 
children. You may trust me." 

Something in his lack of embarrassment 
was most reassuring. She unbent visibly. 
" My skirt is very damp," she said, longingly. 

" Right-ho ! You wait a moment." He 
vanished round the corner, to return with 
plenty of chopped wood and kindling. Raking 
the ash from the rusty grate, he soon had a 
blaze, produced a tin-kettle and other treasures 
from behind a slab of slate which, to Phene's 

bewilderment, he called a Duchess, and set 
water to boil. 

It was astonishing how the warmth and 
the company raised Phene's spirits. She 
toasted her feet by the fire, and set her shoes 
to dry. 

" My word ! Did you walk here in those 
things ? " asked her new friend, con- 

" Walk ? No ! I cycled." 

" Oh, come ; cycled I Cycled up here ? " 

" Don't laugh at me ! Of course, I had to 
walk mostly. I thought I could get out on 
the main road, somewhere nearCapel Curig." 

" I see ; and you lost your way. Are you 
taking a cycling tour through Wales alone ? " 

"Certainly not. I am staying with my 
people at Colwyn Bay. I was going to 
Hebron to interview a lady who wants a 
governess. I am a governess," said Phene, 
gravely explanatory. 

" Indeed ! " he said, a little derisively. 
" Fond of children, I suppose ? " 

"No, I don't know that I am, particularly." 

" Halloa ! Don't be so candid with the 
lady at Hebron, or your chance won't be 
worth much." 

Phene sighed. " One of the hateful parts 
of earning your own living is that you mustn't 
be candid," she said, impatiently. 

" Well, you may be candid with me. We 
are ships that pass in the night, you know. 
I shall not even ask who you are. You may 
speak, therefore, with freedom, for it interests 
me to know that a young lady has to earn 
her bread by looking after children when she 
doesn't even like children." 

" Other people's children," said Phene, with 
a sigh. " That is very different from — from 
one's own," she went on, in a hurry. " I 
mean other people's children are so unsatis- 
factory — like a tale you begin in monthly 
parts, and never know the end. I've been 
at it seven years — teaching, I mean. The 
children I taught are all too big to need me 
now, and, you see, I had got fond of them. 
I saw them every day, all those years ! The 
littlest boy was a darling ! He loved me, and 
I taught him from the first. Now all his 
curls are cut off, and he is too big to sit on 
his governess's lap. I have sometimes thought 
that one's own boy would never outgrow his 
own mummie's lap. And now, you see, I have 
to begin taking an interest in someone else's 
child. She is nine. When she is twelve her 
people will send her to school, and I shall 
be adrift again. That was what I meant. 
It is all rather dreary." 

The man had bu very still, his head on his 


i8 4 


hand, listening to this speech. Something in 
his silence magnetically conveyed the idea of 
sympathy. Phene was a little ashamed of 
having said so much. She stole a look at 
him, and his hard eyes seemed to have melted 
and to glisten in the firelight. 

"I didn't mean to talk all that nonsense," 
she hurriedly said, ** It is only when I get 
moped that I become a growler. Don't take 
any notice/ 1 

11 Do you easily get 
moped?" he asked, 
"Because, if so, I 
shouldn't advise you to 
come to Hebron." 

" I'm never dull/' said 
Phene, ** if that is what 
you mean, and I simply 
love, the country — 
especially these moun- 
tains. And now I have 
told you so much I think 
you ought to tell me 
why you were hammer- 
ing in these caves in the 
middle of the night/' 

"Certainly* Your 
confidence has been so 
interesting to me, I shall 
be glad if I can interest 
you in return. I am 
the owner of a quarry 
not very far from here, 
and our slate is pegging 
out This place where 
we now are was worked 
out and abandoned a 
century ago, but I am a 
bit of a geologist, and I 
have always fancied that there is something 
much better worth having than slate to be 
found on the south side of these workings." 
He opened a little leather pouch that hung by 
his waist, and laid out upon his hand some 
flat, feathery things that looked rather like 
dried seaweed. Touching them with her 
finger, she found ihey were thin sheets of 
metal, showing a pinky glint here and there 
in the firelight "Copper," he said, "and 
the price of copper rising every day ! It 
might not have paid to mine in so far, on the 
bare chance ; but those old slate-hunters 
cleared my way for me nicely. As it is'' — he 
broke off, with a laugh — u I've been pursuing 
my solitary investigations for a month past. 
When I saw you I thought I had been spied 
upon and followed, and I was not pleased/ 

"You didn't look pleased,' 1 observed Phene, 
after a pause, "I was not pleaded, either/ 1 

" I hope," he ventured, " that your change 
of mind is as complete as mine? 1 * 

She looked up shyly and then she laughed 
Her face broke into the gladness which was 
natural to it He smiled back ; in fact, 
when Phene laughed, it was always difficult 
to refrain from joining her. 

" Please tell me the result of your investi- 
gations," she said. 


** I am going to acquire the place to 
morrow. Next time you think of cycling 
over the top of Carnedd Newydd you will 
know that a welcome awaits you at this hotel. 
I will give you an open invitation." 

11 1 shall be able to write something very 
flattering in the visitors' book," said Phene, 
with a fascinating little chuckle, as she laid 
down her empty cup, *' Cooking and 
attendance alike excellent/' 

They both laughed at that. 

* ( How is it that you come to be governess- 
ing?" he asked, abruptly. I( ls vour father 

11 Long ago. He was a parson ; there was a 
smallpox epidemic in the village. He took it. 7 * 

"What, Neville? Neville of Dainsiay? 
Was he your father? I knew him. He was 
a grand sort/' He pondered a moment, and 
added : Qfi^irSffcforSiitf? explain ycui a little/ 1 




" Oh, dear," said Phene ; " he had much 
more common sense than I have. I am 
always getting into scrapes, and at my age I 
ought to know better. Just think of tonight, 
for example ! If Miss Mostyn knew of it, she 
might not consider me at all a fit person to 
have the training of a child." 

" But surely there is no need to tell her ? " 
He asked the question intently. 

She hesitated ; and after a moment 
hazarded, " You might." 

He seemed displeased. " I am sorry you 
can think so," he said, stiffly. 

" Well, I didn't really think so," said Phene, 
growing scarlet. 

"Reflect," he said, in a different tone—a 
tone that for the first time that night conveyed 
to Phene the reminder that they were of 
different sexes, and alone together under un- 
conventional circumstances. " Apart from the 
fact that your misadventure is, of course, safe 
with me, is it likely that I, condemned to live 
in a place like Hebron, would say one word 
! that could prevent your coming to lighten our 
darkness ? " 

Phene's face hardened ; she drew herself 
up. u It is dawn," she said, stiffly. " I can 
get on now, if you will direct me." 

The mouth of the cave was flooded with a 

j marvellous blue dawn-light. Phene went 

along the pathway and stood looking out, 

while the quarry-manager watched her expres- 

| sive face and tense, graceful form, with the 

; delicate, cold radiance on it. 

When he had hidden his kettle and cups 
1 he joined her. 

"We keep fairly early hours here," he said, 
"but it might, perhaps, be wiser not to pay a 
call before nine o'clock. It is now a quarter 
to five I will show you the way as far as 
the lake. I have left my own bicycle there, 
j and on the shore there is a cottage where 
you can have breakfast and rest awhile. 
Thence the road is plain, and you can reach 
Tan y Pont in about an hour." 

"Thank you — you are very kind," she said, 
simply ; and together they stepped out into 
the glimmering mystery of the new day, no 
hint of rain in the clear sky. As the light 
grew broader they looked at each other with 
eagerness, each scanning the new comrade 
with veiled anxiety, lest colours seen by 
candle light should not bear the light of 

Phene's shoes were apparently the only 
cause he found for critidism. " If you come 
to live in Hebron you'll have to be differently 
'' shod," he told her. 

"I suppose," said Phene, hesitatingly, 
Vol. «x*ii!,-24 

" from what you say, that you know Miss 
Mostyn ? " 

" I know something of her — yes." 

"And the child?" 


"Do you think I— should " 

"Suit? Yes." 

" I was not going to ask that," said Phene, 
warmly. " How could you answer such a 
question except by a conventional compli- 
ment ? I was meaning to say, do you think 
I should like them?" 

A light of cordial approval shone in his 
eyes, but he answered soberly. " I don't 
know. The child has no mother ; she might 
satisfy some of your maternal instincts. Her 
mother died when she was born." 

"Oh, poor child!" 

" No," he answered, absently ; " I think — I 
am afraid it was a good thing for the child." 

Phene looked horrified for a moment, but 
as he spoke they found themselves at the 
lake-side ; and, looking at him, she knew the 
moment of parting had come. 

" The cottage is up there, by the big tree," 
he said, surrendering to her the bicycle, 
which he had carried during a great part of 
their traverse of the flank of Carnedd 
Newydd. " Tan -y- Pont is straight away 
down this road. I shall pass a post-office ; 
would you like me to send off a wire to your 
mother ? " 

" How kind of you to think of that ! " 
Hastily she scribbled her message and 
handed it to him, together with a sixpence 
which he gravely accepted. Then she looked 
him full in the eyes. 

" I want to say," she said, " that if Miss 
Mostyn thinks of engaging me, I shall tell 
her exactly what happened last night. I 
should not be comfortable else." 

" But," he broke in, " I do not wish people 
to know that I was there." 

"Well, they won't," said Phene, bluntly. 
" I don't know who you are. I only know 
that you are a gentleman." 

He stood still. He seemed moved, for 
dark colour mounted to his very brow. He 
took off his cap, bent low, and, taking up 
her small brown hand, kissed it, his head 

" Do just as you think right — your fine 
feeling cannot lead you wrong," he replied. 
" Had my own sister been in your circum- 
stances last night I could have wished her to 
bear herself just as you did. I hope we shall 
meet again," 

"Oh," cried PhendJ ffiWia sudden sweep 
of emotion cgp;a|lq^i|lf jbttii^ 1 ^^ kind ? "J 



do hope we shall ! " She caught a glimpse of 
a remarkably intense expression in his dark 
eyes as he sprang on his own bicycle and 
rode away. 

All her life long Phene remembered just 
how she felt during her walk by the shore of 
the lovely Llyn in the splendour of the 
summer morning. She remembered the 
blaze of gold at the water's edge, soaring up, 

and some apprehension as to the direful 
sound of her story when repeated to a prim 
maiden lady, 

Tan-y-Pont was a charming house, stand- 
ing in well-kept grounds* The fact depressed 
Phene; they would want a more impressive 
person than herself 

In the cool, low, long drawing-room she 
found an elderly lady whose cap and 
spectacles gave her an air of sternness. 

Her greeting was kind, however* 

u I was very sorry the storms of yesterday 



up away to the blue, where the early sun 
burned upon the gorse-covered hi 11- side that 
rises sheer from the bosom of the lake. 

All her life she remembered the cosy 
cottage, the Welsh dresser with its copper 
lustre ware, its old pewter, its gallant dishes ; 
the delicious breakfast, the odour of the 
wood fire. 

Over all things a consciousness of inner 
excitement, some new, wonderful feeling 
which, ,she thought, was the buoyancy of 
the mountain air, or perhaps the thrill of 

The kind little woman tended her well, 
showed her to a tiny white chamber, and let 
her rest and refresh herself until it should 
be time for her to go on. 

Soon after ten o'clock she came forth, neat 
and trim, mounted her bicycle, and flew down 
the pass with glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, 

prevented my seeing you," said she* "I 
ought to have invited you to stay the night ; 
distances in these mountains are greater than 
they sound." 

" Yes, 1 notice that," was Phene's timid 

" You are in excellent time this morning — 
perhaps you spent the night in Rettws?" 

" No." 

The word was hardly breathed, The girl 
felt rather like tears. To have come so far 
and to be disappointed seemed very dis- 
couraging, but how dared she speak of her 
escapade to so staid a lady as this ? 

" My niece," said Miss Mostyn, " whose 
education I should wish you to undertake " 
—Phene fairly jumped at the sudden and 
welcome change of subject — "has been under 
mv charg^96jR^jlv ^Jaree years. She is, I 



tell you she is wayward. Her father died 
when she was about four, and it is only fair 
to you to add that her mother, who died at 
her birth, was a person whom we could not 
receive into the family. My brother lived in 
the Colonies, and his little motherless girl 
was mismanaged and neglected. When 
Marjorie came to me there was much to alter 
in her character and habits, baby though she 
was. I say this to prepare you for the fact 
that now and then the remains of this mis- 
management crop out I think she may be 
more likely to show her worse side with a 
stranger. You look rather young — are you 

"Oh, I am not at all young," cried Phene, 
so earnestly that a slight smile crossed the 
face of Miss Mostyn. " I have had years of 
experience ! If you write to Mrs. Stokes she 
will tell you that I had all four children." 

" That is well," said Miss Mostyn, gently, 
ber gentleness seeming to reprove Phene's 
vehemence. " I have so far taught Marjorie 
myself, but she is getting beyond my anti- 
quated knowledge now, and, moreover, I 
want a companion for her on her long walks. 
You are a good walker, I hope ? " 

"Oh, very!" 

" It is a thing her uncle is most particular 
about — that she should have plenty of 
exercise. He is devoted to his little niece." 

" Her uncle ? " murmured Phene. 

"My brother, Mr. Hugh Mostyn," said 
Miss Mostyn, with dignity. Phene did not 
reply. She had not thought of there being a 
male member of the household, somehow. 

More questions as to her attainments, 
character, and habits followed. Finally, 
Phene produced Mrs. Stokes's card, with 
her address upon it, and awaked to the fact 
that, subject to that lady's favourable reply 
to inquiries, her engagement was a settled 

It was done; and no awkward questions 
had been asked. Surely there was now no 
need for her to mention her nocturnal pranks ? 
Why should she risk the chance of securing 
this good post, simply in order to be so ex- 
tremely candid ? Nobody knew but one man, 
whose name was unknown to her. If she 
should meet him she must treat him as a 
stranger. Surely that was very simple ? 

The temptation to smile and depart with- 
out further explanation was strong. But she 
could not Her own invincible candour stood 
between herself and the door. 

"I will call Marjorie," said Miss Mostyn, 
her hand on the bell. 

"Wait just a moment ? " said Phene, feeling 

positively faint. " I have something to tell 
you first. I — did rather a mad thing last 
night. I would not be warned by the storms, 
but tried to push on, meaning to go back by 
the Bettws road, and I was benighted. There 
was no road I could take. I was just obliged 
to shelter for the night in an old quarry." 

Miss Mostyn stood up very straight, staring 
at her. 

" Indeed ! That must have been very 

" It — it was all right," said her prospective 
governess, feebly. The lady's quiet reception 
of .her confession made it seem doubly 
unnecessary, and filled her with foreboding. 
" It was not uncomfortable, and I did not 
mind until I was awoke by a noise, and — 
and — I found there was a — man — in the 

" A man ? A tramp ? " gasped Miss 

" I was horribly afraid for a minute or 
two," said Phene, hurrying on regardless of 
consequences. "Then I saw he was a 
gentleman — and he was kind. He made 
me some cocoa and lit a fire, and — took care 
of me. Of course, I do not know who he 

There was a silence, in which she heard 
her heart thump, thump. 

" A gentleman ! Incredible ! What could 
he be doing there ? " 


" What did he pretend to be doing ? " 


" Did he say nothing to excuse his 
appearance ? " 

" Yes ; but he did not wish it to be known 
what he was doing." 

" Do you not think you had better tell me, 
in confidence?" 

Phene shook her foolish head. " I promised 
him I would not. He was kind, 1 and I 
should not like to do him any injury." 

Miss Mostyn sat down. 

"Are you aware that by refusing to speak 
out you arouse suspicion ? " 

"Yes," said Phene, with the boldness 
of desperation ; " but I expect you to believe 
me, because, you see, I need not have said a 
word of this if I had not chosen. I only 
spoke because, somehow, I hate to keep 
things back. It was ill-advised and head- 
strong of me to put myself in such a position, 
and 1 thought you ought to know I had 
done it." 

" Should you know the man again if you 
were to see ©i*rg?nal£ c >ked Miss Mostyn, 




"Oh, yes/' replied Phene, in tones of 
entire conviction. As she spoke there rose 
before her the picture of her friend, with the 
softened look in his eyes, as he bent towards 
her, holding out the precious bits of ore. 

" Is that he, out there on the lawn ? u said 
the lady, abruptly. 

Phene's heart bounded, then stood still. 
She grew white as death. Outside in the 
garden two people were approaching the 
window, a long-legged, longhaired little girl, 
skipping and jumping, holding the hand of 
a tall man, whose well-cut clothes,, spotless 
it? liar, and neat tie formed a great contrast to 
the appearance of the midnight miner who 
bad so unceremoniously intruded upon her 

The girl was in a sore dilemma. What 
was she to say? She must lie, or she must 
betray him. It was possible that he most 
particularly wished his sister not to know bis 
errand in the quarry* 

She took only a moment to make up her 

u I do not know that gentleman/' she said, 
stead ily, drawing a deep breath. 

"No ; but 1 will make him known to you," 
said Miss Mostyn, She approached the 
astonished girl and laid her thin hand upon 
I be round young arm, 

"The fact is, he has already told me all 
about his curious 
meeting with you. 
I knew f r o m 
him that you in- 
tended to relate 
the affair to your 
future employer, 
and I confess I 
was curious to 
know whether you 
would have cour- 
age when it came 
to the point. Had 
you, as I half 
thought you in- 
tended, left me 
without mentioning 
it, I should have 
felt disappointed. 
My brother was 
most favourably 
impressed by your 

behaviour in a difficult position. He begged 
me to engage you unless there were some 
strong reason to the contrary* I am bound 
to say I have found none. I hope you will 
come to us," 

" May we come in ? ' said Hugh Mostyn 
at the window. ** Marjorie and I are most 
anxious to make the acquaintance of our 

They all made friends during luncheon in 
the old panelled dining-room ; and afterwards 
the motorcar was ordered, and Mr. Mostyn 
and Marjorie escorted Phene back to Colwyo 
Bay. Her bicycle was left behind — " to be 
ready when you come," as Marjorie gleefully 

As they shot down the road to Bettws, 
Mostyn humorously remarked, nodding his 
head towards a steep lane, "That's where 
your road should have brought you out 
yesterday, if you had gone right." 

"If I had L;one right ! " said Phene f 
reddening. "But I always go wrong. How- 
ever, 1 think I ought to be cured now of my 
taste for short cuts." 

" Well, I don't know," said the man, turn- 
ing to her with a very kind smile. "After 
all, your short cut took you exactly to the 
right place, didn't it ? In fact, I am half 
inclined to believe it was the shortest cut you 
ever took." 


by Google 

Original from 


Every Article in this entirely novel series contains at least one hundred illustrations I 



~HE enterprise of the railway com- 
■ panies has brought a day in Paris 
within the range of practical possi- 
bilities to thousands of llritons, and 
in the course of a day, as this article 
will demonstrate, most of the sights 
of the Gay City can be seen, and 
seen with ease if a taxameter cab is 
taken over the route indicated on the 
above map. 

Starting from the Grand Hotel we 
pass along the Boulevard des Capu- 
cines — which is at the western end 
of what are known as the Grand 
Boulevards — and in a few moments 
reach the great church of I.a Made- 
leine, the most fashionable of all the 
places of worship, where two or three 
minutes should be spared for a 

&. plttc dc Id Cepc&rdv 



glance at the beauti- 
ful interior. Facing 
the Place de la 
Madeleine is a short 
but well-known street 
— the Rue Royale— 
which leads lo the 
renowned Place de 
la Concorde, "the 
finest site in Europe." 
At the corner of the 
Rue Royale, as we 
enter the Place de la 

Concorde, the Ministry of Marine may be 
seen on the right, and on the left the 
Tuileries Gardens and the long vista of the 
Rue de Rivoli. In crossing the PJace, where 
Louis XVI. was guillotined, to the Avenue 
des Champs Elys^es, we can pass the Egyptian 
Obelisk — the Cleopatra's Needle of Paris— 
and the allegorical figures of great French 
towns, as well as other monuments. 

In driving through the Avenue, which may 
be described as a glorified Rotten Row, we 
pass close to M Les Ambassadeurs " and the 
Jardin de Paris, the two most celebrated 
places of al fresco entertainment of the cafi 
concert kind ; the Petit Palace, a survival of 
the Exhibition of 1900, now utilized as the 
municipal art gallery of the city ; and the 
Ely see Palace, the official residence of 
the President of the French Republic, At 
the Arc de Triomphe, the magnificent 

monument of Napoleon's victories, we turn 
into the Avenue Kleber — one of twelve 
avenues radiating from this point — which 
leads direct to the Tmcadero, a palatial 
building erected for the International Exhibi- 
tion of 1878, with an interesting Aquarium 
and Gardens sloping down to the Seine. 

We pass along the riverside until we 
reach the beautiful Alexander III, Bridge, 
named in honour of the Russian alliance and 
opened at the time of the Exhibition ; and 
the Grand Palais, another permanent sur- 
vival of the great show of 1900, now the 
home of the Paris Salon, Crossing the 
bridge we have before us, at 
* — -j the end of a spacious espla- 
k nade, the magnificent facade 

of the Hotel des Invalided 
jjSjJL with its sumptuous golden 

dome, within whose walls a 
few old soldiers are still main- 
tained. Its great attraction 
is the tomb of Napoleon in 
the elegant chapel 

A short distance to the 
south, in the boulevard bear- 
ing the same name, is the 
Pasteur Institute, which 
honours the memory and 
carries out the work of the 
great scientist. Returning 
by the Rue des Sevres, we 
pass the famous shops of the 



Bon Marche and 
make our way to 
the farther end of 
the Boulevard St. 
Germain, the former 
centre of fashion, 
in ardor to view the French House of 
Commons, noticing just before it is reached 
the Ministry for War, The Chamber of 
Deputies faces the river* close to the Pont de 
la Concorde, from which bridge, if change of 
locomotion is agreeable, a short trip may be 
made on one of the popular steamboats to 
the Pont des Arts. The Institute — the head- 
quarters of the French Academy of Arts and 
Sciences — i% on the Quai Conti, close to this 

A short turning away from the 
river takes us into an old part of 
the city, known as St, Germain-des- 
IVtSj and proceeding in the same 
direction we cross the Place St. Sul- 
pice, with its picturesque old church, 
and reach the mr 
Palace. This 

spacious residence of the 

French Kings is now partly 

used as the meeting- place of 

the Senate and partly as the 

National Gallery of Modern 

Art. The Gardens, with their 

decorative sculpture, including 

■•.LiUie of WatUau, will Ik: 

much admired* We leave the 

Luxembourg by the Avenue 

de PObservatoire, at the end of which is a 

fine sculptured fountain by Carpeaux, 

We turn to the left into the Boulevard 
Port Royal, soon quitted, however, for the 
Rue St. Jacques, which is traversed until 
the Place de Pantheon is reached, the 
old church of the Val de Grace being 
seen on the way. Almost a stone's throw 
from the Pantheon, the last resting - place 
of many great Frenchmen, is the Sor bonne, 
in the Rue des Ecoles, where some of the 
greatest living Frenchmen discourse on science 
and philosophy ; it is the principal building 
of the Paris University and takes its name from 
that of its founder. By the Rue des Ecoles 
we enter the Boulevard St. Michel, known 
to the students of tins, the Latin Quarter, 
as the " Boul Mich " ; and in a little street to 
the right of this— the Rue du Sommerard — will 
be found the entrance to the Cluny Museum, 
noted for its tapestries and other articles of 
domestic art. At the end of the students' 




.t<v Jiinliu tics I'tamlc* 


boulevard we pass the Fountain of Sl 
Michel, and, crossing the bridge of the 
same name, reach the He de la Cite, with 
its group of historical buildings. The 
first of these is the Palais de Justice, 
including the Cour de Cassation, the 
highest tribunal in France, which finally 
vindicated the cause of justice in the 
Dreyfus case. At the other side of this 
vast building is the Conciergerie, the 
prison in which Marie Antoinette, Robes- 
pierre, and other heroes of the Revolu- 
tion were immured. A vast inner court- 
yard gives access to La Sainte Chapel Ie T 
a church dating from the thirteenth cen- 
tury, with a richly-decorated interior. In 
appropriate proximity to the law courts 
is the Tribunal of Commerce, quite a 
modern building, where disputes are 
settled by arbitration. At the other end 
of the little island we reach the most 
historical of all the Paris churches, the 
famous Cathedral of Notre Dame, This 
noble edifice must delay our progress for 
a few minutes ; note the splendid old 
carving of the door in entering, gaze 
in subdued wonder at the magnificent 
interior, :ind ascend the towers for an 
inspiring view, in company of the famous 
clog and other gorgons, of the centre of 

Prom Notre Dame we make our way 
by the Punt de i'Archeveche*, where we 
pass the Morgue and the Quai Monte- 
be II o, to the jardin des Plantes — the 
Zoo of Paris and the Natural History 
Museum. Crossing the Pont d'Austerlitz 
we return on the other side of the river 
to the Hotel de Ville, a building which 
splendidly embodies in marble and stone 
the municipal solidarity of Paris. Con- 
tinuing along the riverside we pass the 
lofty Tour St. Jacques— the only rem- 
nant of an ancient church — and the 
finely- restored church of St, Germain 


V<& *xxiii.-25 

Then we are 
brought to a 
standstill as the 
magnific ent 
range of the 
Palais du 
Louvre comes 
into view, al- 
though its full 
beauty cannot 
be compre- 
hended until the 
Place da Carrousel 
s reached, 

A hasty walk 
through one of the 
salles will satisfy us 
that the interior Is no less beautiful than 
the exterior of this former Royal palace, 
now the "National Gallery" of France. 
Leaving the PI act: du Carrousel, with its 
Triumphal Arch and monument to Gam- 
betta, we reach the site of the Palace of 
the Tuileries, of which the only remaining 
vestige is the Porte Jean Goujon. A few 
yards to the right brings us to the middle 
of the Rue de Rivoli, where on the right 
we have the most celebrated of the Paris 
shops, the Magasins du Louvre, and on 
the left I he Tuileries Gardens, with their sculp- 
tured lion and tiger. 

Leaving the Rue de Rivoli by the colonnaded 
Rue Castiglione, we have in front of us the 
Vend 6 me Column (Napoleon is at the top in the 
costume of Caesar) and the Rue de la Paix. We 
turn off from this latter street into the Avenue de 
POpAna for the Palais Royal, passing eti route the 
Theatre Fran^ais, the national playhouse, with its 
interesting Gallery of Busts, The Palais Royal, 
now a mere shadow of its former self, need not 
detain us, but hurrying through the Place des 
Victoires, with its statue of Louis XIV., wc reach 
the National Library ('* Bibliothecjue Nationale 1 ') 
and the Stock Exchange ("La Bourse"), tho 
quiet environment of the one contrasting with 
the bustle of the other. Thence we make our way to the farther 
end of the Rue de Rivoli -the old Fontaine des Innocents and 
St. Eustache Church may be noted en route ■-- and so to the Place 
de la Bastilto vnth its bronze ct^pf^rralnfiiwnioratiiig the capture 
and dcstffKjttin of the p^|w-|ti|^^ on the 

site, A short drive along the '"same mam thoroughfare, now 



— : i> 

called the Rue da 

Faubourg St An- 

toine, takes us to the 

Place do la Nation, 

where a fine group 

of statuary by Dalou 

celebrates the "Triumph of the 


Before returning to the Grand 
Boulevards a short dttwtr enables 
us to obtain a glimpse of " Pcre la 
Chaise/' the largest of the Paris 
cemeteries, contai n- 
ing the graves of a 
host of the famous 
dead* Regaining the 
Boulevard Vol ta i re 
we are soon at the 
Place de la Repub- 
lique, with its Monu- 
ment de la Rt5publique, and in the 
full tide of boulevard life, passing 
the Theatre de la Renaissance and 
other well-known places of public 
resort. The Porte St. Martin, a 
triumphal arch dating from 1674, 
marks the beginning of the Boule- 
vard St. Martin, which gives 
place to Boulevard Montmartre 
and then Boulevard des 

At the Vaudeville Theatre 
we turn off into the Rue de 
Chaimee d'Antin, a somewhat 
narrow thoroughfare, which, as 
far as the well-known Trinity 
Church, is full of traffic on its 
way to the Western or St. Lazare 
Railway Station, This station, at 
which arrive English passengers by 
the Newhaven- Dieppe route, has a 
fine hotel attached to it accord 
ing to the London fashion. We 
are now close to the Liuulevunl 

k M_ - 5* - * *f^ * 

1 00- fhtf 11a*fllca 
tit Sflcrt Ca v ur 

Malesherbes, the 
most conspicuous 
feature of which is 
the modern church 
of St, Augustine, and 
at its farther end *e 
reach the Pare Monceaux, a large 
public; garden, much decorated with 
statuary, which was planted by 
Philippe of Orleans just before the 
Great Revolution. From this open 
s[>ace we proceed along the Boule- 
vard des Batignolles 
to the Place de 
Clichy, near which is 
the long flight of 
steps or the penny 
funicular railway, 
1 which will take us 
up to the great Sacre 
Cceur Church on the heights of 
Montmartre. The recent building 
of this church as a protest against 
the worldliness of the great city is 
dealt with, some readers may re- 
member, in Zola's novel, " Paris." 
We continue our way along this 
main line of boulevards until 
Boulevard Magenta is reached, 
and suon after turning into this 
imiiortant thoroughfare we see 
another great railway terminus 
—the Northern Company's, for 
the Calais and Boulogne route 
from England. 

At the top of the Rue de 
la Fayette is the Church of 
St. Vincent and St. Paul, and 
traversing this long street, nothing 
else of much interest meets the 
eye until the Opera House and 
the Grand Hotel are reached 
and our peregrination is at an 

Xb* whoJe of the photograph* in this article were uken by Mt^rn. Levy & 5otiS T Vans, 

by Google 

Original from 

The Fortune of WsuTc 

By G C Andrews. 

URNING hot as the weather 
was, th* early morning at least 
was cool. As Priscilla Kirton 
stood on the north porch of 
the old house she almost 
shivered in the sharp chill of 
the breeze that blew from the sea — a breeze 
strong enough to flap the straight, scanty 
folds of her high-waisted, flowered chintz 
gown about her ankles. But the unclouded 
sky was already of a blue so intense and vivid 
that she involuntarily put up a hand to shade 
her eyes. In truth, they were both strained 
and heavy, for she had slept badly, more 
than once starting up with racing heart and 
alert ears, believing that the boom of guns had 
roused her. Many a man and woman so slept 
and so started along the New England 
coast in the late summer of 1814, for any 
morning might see the dread of months 
realized, and King George's ships in the bay. 
All the previous day she and old black 
Martha had spent — as did scores of women 
in those troublous times — in scraping lint 
and rolling bandages ready for what might 
come, working as busily as the men in the 
adjacent town toiled to strengthen their 
earthworks against the bombardment which 
the appearance of the British frigates 
would most surely portend. Priscilla 
Kirton, labouring at these tasks, was in- 
spired with a stanch patriotism enough, 
but with a fiercer loyalty still towards 
David Lynn in the town. For almost a year 
she had worn upon her sunburnt left hand 
the old fashioned betrothal ring which had 
been David's Devonshire mother's, but had 
shaken her head resolutely when her lover 
begged her to marry him. When the war 
was over, and the British sent back overseas, 
it would be time enough for that, she 
declared. And David, albeit unwillingly, 
had acquiesced. He had no more doubt 
than she that they would shortly send the 
British back. 

Priscilla stood looking across her parched 
garden and down the dusty white curve of 
the road to the shore. Already the breeze 
was dying and the sun's rays were strengthen- 
ing — the day would be as fiercely hot as 
yesterday had been. She stepped back, 
dropping her hand, into the cool gloom of 
the great, sparsely-furnished sitting-room. Old 
Martha was just setting her chair in place 
before the spread breakfast-table. 

" I shall go out as soon as I have eaten 

breakfast," she said, "before the sun gets 
higher. Later it is too hot, and I must go 
and see old Mrs. Pierce to-day. John Grant's 
wife, when she passed yesterday, said she gets 
weaker. Put up a basket with some eggs, 
Martha, and maybe she could take a glass of 
cordial. There's no harm in carrying a 
bottle, anyway. Get it ready." 

Old Martha went out, rolling her black 
eyes in white circles of terror over her broad 
shoulder — she lived in such fear of the 
dreaded British that she hardly dared step 
beyond the garden wall. The basket was 
ready when Priscilla, making an end of her 
meal, put on her broad straw hat before the 
tarnished mirror between the two narrow 
windows, covering her great, high-twisted coil 
of golden hair and shading her steady, grave 
blue eyes. She was a tall woman, and held 
her beautiful figure with a great and quite 
unconscious stateliness, New England farmer's 
daughter though she was. David Lynn had 
not been the first to discover and declare her 
beauty. But Priscilla had looked at no other. 

The door of the tiny, decaying nutshell of 
a wooden house lying down a track a little 
way off the road was open when she reached 
it, and Mrs. Pierce's widowed daughter stood 
red -eyed and yawning on the threshold. 
Her mother was much the same and still 
sleeping, she reported indifferently enough ; 
the old woman had been for years an invalid. 
Priscilla, her empty basket in her hand, 
hesitated when she reached the road again, 
and turned slowly in the direction of the 
shore. No especial impulse moved her, and 
certainly no expectation that that particular 
morning would see the dreaded British war- 
ships in the bay. It was only when presently 
she withdrew her eyes from a long gaze at 
the vague lines where blue sky and blue 
water met and mingled hazily in the heat- 
mist that she saw a boat lying moored within 
a few yards of her, drawn so closely to a great 
rock that it was almost lost in its shadow. 

Priscilla started with a sense of shock that 
set all her pulses beating. That a boat 
should be there was in itself nothing, since 
that part of the beach provided excellent 
anchorage for fishermen's skiffs and such 
small craft. Was this a fisherman's boat? 
Was it her fancy that it had about it a curious 
air of stealth and secrecy, and that its shape 
and aspect were somehow strange ? The 
whole expanse of the bay lay tranquil and 
empty, but from that point the shore took a 



sudden inward curve so deep that if the 
thought which had darted into her head was 
a right one, and this indeed a British boat, 
half-a-dozen warships might well lie anchored 
before the town and she not see. 

She had never yet in her life yielded to an 
unreasoning terror, but she turned now and 
hurried up the shelving hcurh and along the 
road again as swiftly as though the long- 
expecied booming of the guns had shocked 
her ears. If she were right, who knew that 
the hated scarlet coats might not be close, 
she thought, almost running and all breath- 
less. She was passing the point where a side 
track, striking through a belt of woodland, 
made a short road to the town, when a wagon 
came lumbering out at a clumsy gallop, and 
she sprang aside to avoid it. There was a 
shout of warning in a man's voice that 
changed to one of recognition, a scream 
from a woman, and the horses were pulled 
up beside her. Priscilla recognised one of 
the chief of the town's storekeepers and his 


1 7v 



': x v.- m ,i is ,_ o!K 


A 1 1 L-.M^V GAl-1,1 

ir, AN|> 


St M 

wife, a couple of scared children clinging to 
her, a wailing infant in her arms. The man's 
keen, brown face w r as com|>osed enough, but 
the woman's was literally blank with terror ; 
the wagon was filled with a heap of orna- 
ments and household furnishings — snatched 
up, it was plain, in the very wildness of 
flight, Priscilla, looking, understood. "The 
British ? " she exclaimed, "They are come, 
Mr. Lightfoot ? Are they come ? :i 

" Yes, yes ! " tin? woman cried, shrilly. She 
put out a hand and clutched the girl's arm. 
"There's four ships — four in the bay! 
And more coming ! They'll blow down the 
town and come ashore and kill all they can 
catch. We're going to my cousin's away 
inshore. You'd best come along, Priscilla 
Kirton, if you don't want to be murdered too ! " 
The renewed cries of the frightened children 
almost drowned the wail with which she threw 
her hands over her face, rocking to and fro 
distractedly. Her husband, as well as he 
could, spoke through the uproar. It was 

true enough — four 
great King's ships 
were anchored in 
the bay, their guns 
trained upon the 
town. At any mo- 
ment the firing 
might begin. For- 
mal warning had 
been signalled that 
unless the place sur- 
rendered bombard- 
ment would follow. 
Almost every able- 
bodied man there 
was at work upon 
the defences; the 
old and the women 
and children were 
hiding or flying, as 
he himself had 
been forced to do 
by his wife's help- 
less clamour and 
terror. As for sur- 

Priscilla inter- 
rupted, a blaze of 
scarlet flaming in 
her pale cheeks. 
The town was 1 )avid Lynn to her ; it was as 
though she had heard her lover asked to play 
the coward. 

**The town will never surrender!" she 

cried. 'QvtgwaMrom 
^Wl«^^^^*^l(MIS ood account pf 



itself first, the man answered, grimly. Would 
she come with them ? There was room in the 
wagon- Perhaps, if she was frightened 

Pnscilla stepped back. 

" I am not frightened," she said, quietly — 
and indeed it seemed that this check had 
restored her calmness of nerve ; her voice 
was quite steady, her trembling past ; in- 
wardly she told herself, with a touch of con- 
tempt, that for a few minutes she certainly 
had been frightened. " I am not frightened," 
she said. " And thank you, Mr. Lightfoot ; 
but I think I won't come. My house must 
be quite out of the range of fire, and maybe 
I shall be useful if 1 stay. I have got all 
the beds ready if they — bring me anyone to 
look to ; and it's like they may." 

The man hardly waited for the words ; his 
wife called to him wildly to go on—go on I 
He lashed the horses in response, and the 
wagon went clattering and swaying down the 
road in a whirling cloud of dust. Priscilla 
followed, with her usual quiet pace of dignity 
now. She was ashamed that she should 
have felt almost a panic, should have shown 
herself a weak creature nearly akin to 
Jonathan Lightfoot's terrified wife ; she who 
had personally no cause for terror, since, 

even should the red-coats come It was 

as the thought shaped itself in her brain that 
she stopped, seeing the red upon the ground. 

It lay at the side of the road, close to the 
grass, a patch as large as her hand. Dust 
had filmed it over ; it was black-edged where 
the sun had dried it, but even for an instant 
there was in her mind no doubt or question 
as to what it was. A glance at the belt of 
green showed her that the leaves were 
crushed and broken, as though some creature 
had dragged itself heavily and painfully 
through, and there, in the shadow of a clump 
of bushes, lay something dark and still. In 
a moment, her face as white as her kerchief, 
she was on her knees beside the man. 

He was quite unconscious, and the wound 
from which the blood had flowed was in his 
side; his hand was pressed upon it as he lay. 
She lifted it, and it dropped as though he 
were dead ; she put her own upon his heart, 
and felt it beating feebly. For only a moment 
as she stood erect again did she look at 
him helplessly; the next, as fast as her 
feet could take her, she was running down 
the road to Mrs. Pierce's cottage. The 
kitchen was empty as she darted in ; her 
bottle of cordial, its cork drawn, stood with 
a glass upon the table ; she snatched up 

both and ran back. The man, lying as she 

had left him, stirred and moaned a little as 

she raised his head upon her arm, putting the 
glass to his lips. At first his teeth were 
clenched, but the flutter of his eyelids seemed 
to tell of returning consciousness; she 
coaxed and crooned to him as she might 
have done to a child, and presently he drank. 
Watching the leaden colour leave his cheeks 
she contrived to fill the glass again, and he 
emptied it, turning his head with a sigh 
against her shoulder. It was as he lay so 
that she for the first time realized that he was 
both handsome and young. She was still 
holding him when his eyes opened and stared 
at her. She slopped him when he moved 
his lips. 

" You mustn't talk," she said, in her clear, 
distinct voice. " If you do your side will 
begin bleeding again. I was passing and 
saw you lying here. It isn't very bad, I 
think, but you've got to be quiet. I'm going 
to see if I can make a bandage for it, but 
first try to move a little when I help you, so 
as to rest against the tree. Gently, because 
you don't want to lose any more blood." 

He obeyed, and she contrived to lift him 
so that the tree-trunk gave him some support. 
She made him drink another glass of her 
cordial, and then, kneeling at his side, pulled 
the kerchief from her neck and the handker- 
chief from her pocket for a bandage. Her 
broad hat had fallen back ; the sun was 
gilding her great coil of high-twisted golden 
hair ; he lay watching her as her deft 
hands tore and folded, inwardly wondering 
whence there could have appeared this girl, 
like a stately young rustic goddess in a 
flowered chintz gown. But he was obedient 
and did not. speak, being, indeed, too ex- 
hausted. She stood for a moment looking at 
him doubtfully when her bandage was in place. 

" It isn't far to home," she said, " only a 
piece down the road, and that's the nearest 
place where you can rest and be looked to. 
But I don't think you'll manage to walk, even 
if you rest on my shoulder." Her knitted 
brow of perplexity cleared suddenly. u Ah, 
she cried, " maybe you could ride ! Do you 
think you could, if I help you ? " 

He made a movement of assent, instantly 
perceiving what she meant. In the unfenced 
meadow flanking the opposite side of the 
road a couple of horses were grazing — fat, 
placid, broad-backed creatures, feeding lazily 
in the sunshine. Neither moved as she 
approached ; she had no difficulty in catch- 
ing the nearer by its halter-rope and leading 
it across. The young man got upon his feet 
with her help, and, staggering and leaning 
upon her shoulder, managed presently to 



mount. Her fear was lest the effort should 
start his wound bleeding afresh; then that 
the pain of the animal's awkward amble 
would overpower him. She watched him 
with a face of pate alarm and solicitude as he 
sat with his head drooping forward on his 
breast, his hand clutching the mane; more 
than once she swallowed back a cry, sure 
that with the next step he must roll to the 
ground ; the length of dusty road, baking 
in the scorching sun-glare, seemed endless. 
Her face was crimson and his death-white 
when she led the horse through her garden 
gate and up to the house door. She sup- 
ported him through the entry and into the 
sitting- room, and there, before she could speak, 
he staggered to a chair and swooned away. 

Priscilla had expected it ; she was only 
thankful that it had not occurred before. 
She ran and called Martha^ and together 
they lifted and laid him on a couch. Then 



she fetched brandy, forcing it down bis throat 
as she had forced the cordial, and water to 
bathe his head In a few minutes his eyes 
opened again. She stopped him when he 
made a struggle to raise himself. 

" Lie still," she said, gently peremptory. 
" You must keep quiet ,J 

"But, madam — I — oh, pardon me — I 

cannot " he began to protest feebly. 

"You must keep still/' Priscilla repeated. 
"I am going to bathe your wound and dress 
it properly— the bullet is not in it, I think. 
You need not be afraid — I know what to da 
Once my father stumbled when he was carry- 
ing his gun and was much worse hurt. It 
was in the winter-time, and the snow was so 
deep that the doctor could not come for a 
week. He said I had done all that he 
could." She hesitated — something in his 
expression puzzled her. "But if you would 

feel easier — 'tis not very far- — I will go " 

" No, no, pray ! n he ex- 
claimed, quickly. "Indeed, 
I beg that you will not 
so far trouble yourself. If 
you will in your great kind- 
ness look to my hurt— in 
itself it is not much, I 

think- n 

" I think not. Please lie 
still," said Priscilla. 

He submitted, closing 
his eyes. Whatever pain 
her ministrations may have 
given him, he made no 
sign beyond an occasional 
wince, but her touch was 
so gentle and so deft that 
it was probably little, and 
although he had lost so 
much blood the wound, as 
she had said, was not in 
j tsel f se ve r e- H e wa s qui te 
young , hardly more than a 
boy, she thought, looking 
at his handsome, clear-cut 
face as it lay back upon her 
tarn bour - worked c ushion- 

Who was he ? His dress 
|« was plain, but less rough 
than a farmer or store- 
keeper would w F ear, and 
the pistol in his belt was 
silver-mounted* His hands, 
though sunburnt and mus- 
cular enough, were well- 
shaped and fine-grained, 

UNIVERSITY OF M^P n was white ' In 



his speech, his tone and manner, there was a 
subtle something 'entirely unlike the gruff 
voices and uncouth bearing of most of the 
men she knew. 

Perhaps he came from Boston ? The men 
in Boston were different, she had heard ; 
they were fine gentlemen there ; and certainly 
he looked very much her idea of a fine 
gentleman — or would do, differently arrayed. 
By the time her work was done she had 
decided that he must have come from Boston. 
It was characteristic of her that so far she 
had hardly paused to wonder how he had 
come by his wound. She did not speak 
until she had helped him to a great cushioned 
chair, and black Martha had gathered up the 
basin, cloths, and dressings and carried them 
away. Her simplicity was quite blind to the 
wonder and admiration with which his dark 
eyes regarded her as she moved in the shaded 
green gloom of the room. 

" You will do well now," she said, " if it 
does not inflame, and I hope it will not if 
you take care. It was losing so much blood 
that made you swoon." She shuddered a 
little, recalling the red patch, but for which 
she would not have seen him. "You fell 
just at the edge of the road, 1 think." 

" I think so — yes." He put his hand to 
his head with a confused gesture. " I 
remember that the faintness overpowered me 
all at once, and I fell. I must have been 
insensible for hours before I came to myself 
and struggled as far as a tree at the edge of 
the wood. I suppose I swooned again. It 
was there you found me, madam ? " 

" Yes," said Priscilla. The formal respect 
of his manner and the ceremony of his 
address both pleased her from their very 
newness ; she smiled at him gravely. " I am 
glad I chanced to go out so early," she said, 
"for, indeed, I think you might have died 
had you lain there long in the sun." She 
paused. "It would have been better to 
wait until morning after you left the stage — 
hereabouts it is not like Boston — there are 
rough men on the roads who will almost do 
murder for robbery. You are not robbed, I 
hope, sir ? " 

" I am not robbed. And I think the man 
who fired at me has sufficient good cause to 
remember me, though less, probably, than I 
to remember him." 

" You shot at him ? Then you saw him, 
sir?" she questioned, quickly. 

14 1 fired — yes. I can scarce say I saw 
him." His tone changed with his short 
half laugh — she had no time to think it an 
odd one. " I have not tried to thank you. 

May I ask the name of the good Samaritan 
to whom I owe so much gratitude? " 

Priscilla told him her name, understanding 
at once the meaning of his significant glance 
at the hand which bore only David s heavy old 
rose-brilliant ring. No, she was not married, 
she said simply — not yet. She was too un 
sophisticated to think his curiosity — smoothed 
by his fine manner — impertinent, and answered 
with the same frankness other questions which 
he suggested rather than put into words. 
Presently she had even told him that she 
and David would be married when the war 
was oyer and the British sent back home. 
He rose when she had been silent a minute, 
sweeping her a ceremonious bow. 

"This gentleman, whose name I do not 
know, should be a happy man, madam, as he 
is certainly a most fortunate one," he said, 
gallantly. " When the war is over — at which 
you will not rejoice more than I — you and 
he will have, believe me, no more sincere 
well-wisher than he who has so much cause 
to thank you. Permit me to do so once 
more, most gratefully, before I go." 

" Go ! " Priscilla echoed. Astonished, she 
stood quickly in his way, stopping him. 
" You do not think of going ? " she cried. 

"With my best thanks — yes. I have troubled 
you too much already, and my business " 

44 But your business can surely wait a 
little?" said Priscilla. She pointed from the 
window across her garden, baking in the 
scorching sunshine ; the very air seemed 
a-quiver in the fervid glare. " Indeed, you 
must not go, all weak as you are," she said, 
earnestly. " The heat was terrible an hour 
ago — it is worse now — you would faint again. 
Pray wait and rest until evening, if you will 
do no more. Though if you will stay until 
to-morrow — and it would be better for your 
wound — you will be very welcome, sir. There 
— see — you cannot walk ; you are staggering 

She caught him by the arm, supporting 
him, doing it easily, for she was almost as 
tall as he. As she did so the hot, brooding 
silence was broken by a booming roar, and 
another and another. There was no surprise 
in Priscilla's involuntary cry. Through all 
her tending of her guest her senses had been 
on the alert for the sound which would tell 
that the threatened bombardment of the 
town had begun. As it rolled into silence 
she spoke quite steadily, although she was 
very white. A chorus of guttural cries rose 
from the kitchen across the entry, where old 
Martha and her older husband clung together 
in a pani0H»F«|tTY OF MICHIGAN - 



"It is the British/' she said. "They are 
firing on the town." 

"The— the British?" he stammered. 

"Yes. There are four great King's ships 
in the bay ; I heard it just before I saw you, 
and that they had signalled they would 
bombard unless the town surrendered. It is 
likely that they have waited to give time for the 
women and children to go*' 3 She pushed a 



TlfCV A UK fjkin*; 

chair towards him, seeing him, she thought, 
whiter than he had been yer. u Ah, you did 
not know : ? ' she exclaimed. "Indeed, I am 
sorry, sir. But there is no need for fear ; the 
house is well out of the range of fire. You 
will tjke no harm here." 

" Oh, madam— harm ! * He pushed aside 
the chair as though with it he pushed aside 
the suggestion. "I have no fear for myself, 
believe me, and am thankful indeed that 
there need be none for you. And— and— 

you allow me to ask ? — this — the — the firing 
—gives you no special cause of anxiety ? I 
trust with all my heart that there is no one 
in the town for whom you greatly care ? " 
"My David is there," said Priscilla, simply. 
" He — your lover ? Is he a soldier ? " 
"Yes— until we send the British home 
again," she answered, proudly. 

He might have divined the words, though 

he had not heard 
them, by the lofty 
lift of her head 
Once more came 
the booming roar of 
the great guns, fill- 
ing the room with 
deafening billows of 
sound ; from the 
kitchen came a re- 
newed clamour of 
terrified moans and 
cries. As both died 
away another sound 
became audible 
from i he road — a 
wild clatter of hoofs 
and wheels and 
running feel ; wagon 
after wagon swept 
by in a haze of dust 
of their own raising 
— the affrighted 
townspeople were in 
full flight/ Priscilla 
ran out upon the 
porch as a stout 
man on horseback 
— a girl, his daugh- 
ter, clinging to his 
waist — reined up at 
her gate. 

"There's another 
ship in the bay," he 
shouted, " They're 
saying the Britishers 
will send enough 
men ashore to hold 
the town when it's 
down. They'll loot and bum what's left and 
take all the prisoners they can. You'd best 
run while there's time, my girl, if you want 
to be safe." 

He galloped on, adding to the cloud of 
dust that enveloped him. Priscilla turned 

" I am not afraid," she said, quietly, " If 
they come they will hardly hurt a woman, 
and mavhe the town s better defended than 
th BHI^^TV^^e^fyN«^ place thrt 



weak, David told me, and as they can't know 
where that is " 

"What's that?" cried the young man, 

Priscilla turned, as quick as he to hear the 
new sound. Through the eddying haze of 
white dust which the wagons had left, an 
advancing mass of figures loomed into view 
—blue shoulders swung steadily to the tramp 
of marching feet. The girl gave an eager 
cry, understanding — the garrison from the 
fort lower down the coast were going to the 
relief of the bombarded town. If the British 
made their threatened landing it would not 
be easy. Once more the roar of the guns 
broke, rolled away thunderously, and died. 
Priscilla spoke quickly— a sudden memory 
striking her. 

" Ah ! " she cried, " perhaps they have 
been ashore already ! It is what David 
feared — that they might send someone to 
find out — spy out — the best point to attack. 
And there was a boat— I am sure a British 
boat — on the beach this morning ! " 

" A boat ? " he echoed. 

" Yes, a little boat, moored under a rock 
this side of the bend. The ships could have 
anchored there in the night and they would 
never be seen from the town. They may 
have sent some men ashore, or maybe only 
one." She paused. " Ah ! " she cried again, 
" perhaps it was they who fired at you. You 
said you did not see." 

" Who fired at me ? " he echoed again. 

" Yes, yes. Why not ? The British — 
don't you understand ? " 

14 The British fire ? At me ? No, no ; a 
thief— a footpad — nothing more." 

He laughed. Priscilla's hand dropped to 
her side ; she stood rigid ; for a space in 
which a clock might have ticked three times 
they looked at each other. She could not 
have told what she read in his face ; it was 
as though she saw a great blaze of light 
illuminate him. "Ah, I understand!" she 
cried. " You rowed in the boat ! You are 
an Englishman ! You are a spy ! " 

Each had fallen back from the other ; the 
tramp of the passing feet seemed to swell and 
fill the room before he spoke, steadily, meet- 
ing the sudden fire of her accusing eyes. 

" You are right," he said. " I am an 
Englishman, madam — a spy, if it pleases you 
to use the word. And I take no shame to 
myself that it is so, though some, I own, that 
I deceived you." 

" No shame ? " she cried. 

" None. I came ashore last night in the 
boat when our ships anchored, and with the 

Vol. xxxiii.— 26. 

object you surmise. What then? I obeyed 
my orders, as a soldier needs must do — as 
your lover needs must do while he bears 
arms. I did not choose the office ; what 
man would, when success means no honour 
and failure death ? It is the fortune of war." 
He shrugged with a half laugh. "Faith, 
were it my choice, madam, it may be that I 
would rather take my quietus in open fight 
than with my back against a wall ! " 

" You — went to the town?" Priscilla gasped. 

"Yes. A sentry saw and challenged me. 
I could not give the password and he fired. 
There you have it in a nutshell." 

" You — you were trying to get back to the 
boat when you swooned ? " 

" Yes." 

41 What is your name?'' she demanded. 

" I am Lieutenant Charles Daventry." 

" Do you know " — she stretched out her 
hand towards the road — "do you know, if I 
call to the soldiers— if I say only a word — 
what they will do?" 

" They will shoot me. But I think you 
will not say the word." 

" Because I am a woman ?" 

" Oh, madam — no ! But because you are 

She turned to the window and back again, 
looking at him as he stood by the table, 
white and quiet, his hand pressed over the 
wound she had dressed. One gesture he 
had made as though to beg her silence, but 
only one. Once more came the boom of 
the guns. As it died she shrank back 
shuddering, and for a moment hid her face. 

" r can't do it ! " she said, brokenly. " I 
— can't call to them ! You — haven't done 
me any harm. It was your duty, I suppose, 
and maybe you're right about David ; I 
hadn't thought of that. He might have had 
to do what youVe done. It's what you called 
it — the fortune of war. And that's cruel at 
best." She stopped, composing herself. " I 
wish things hadn't happened that you came 
here, sir," she resumed, quietly, "but since 
they have you are quite safe. I'll help you 
away when it's dark and not say anything. 
You sha'n't take any harm from me." 

" Oh, you are an angel ! " cried Daventry, 
eagerly. He caught her hand like an im- 
pulsive boy— indeed, he was little more. 
" Believe me, I would almost rather have 
bled to death where you found me than come 
here to cause you this distress. But I hoped 
I might quit the house without discovery — 
as I should have done had you permitted it 
— and with as fervent a gratitude as I pro- 
fessed." He hesitated. 'And — and, madam, 



if I would have bugged your silence as 
earnestly as 1 thank you for your mercy, it is 
not for my own sake only, but because that 
dying— and in such a fashion!—! should 
break a heart that's as tender as your own," 

"Your wife?" asked Prisdlla. 

" My sweetheart ; but, I hope, like you, 
to be a wife when the war is over. May I 
show you her picture ? I could not leave it 
when I disguised myself — I had the fancy 
that she would bring me escape and good 
fortune* Ah, I fear it is stained ! " 

The little case he drew from an inner 
pocket and put into her hand was indeed 
stained. Priscitla looked at the exquisitely- 
tinted miniature it contained— to her the 
small, radiant, dark -eyed brunette face was a 
very wonder of loveliness; but Daventry, 
lover though he was, owned that the face 
bending o^er it was more beautiful 

" She's very pretty," she said, admiringly* 
"I don't think I ever saw anybody just so 
pretty. Will you tell me her name, sir ?." 

"Alice Carew. She is an orphan, and 
lives with my mother in 

44 Davids mother came 
from Devonshire," said 
Friscilla. " She says it's 
a wonderful beautiful 
place — that there's no 
thing like it in America, 
She lives a little way down 
the road with his married 
sister; she's quite old," 
She closed the case and 
returned it with almost a 
smile ; all her anger seemed 
evaporated He was, she 
thought again, such a boy, 
And David might have 
had to do just what he had 
done— David, who loved 
her as he loved his dark- 
eyed s w eet heart. It was 
the fortune of war. M In- 
deed, I hope you may go 
safely back to her, sir/' 
she said, earnestly, " when 
the war is over," 

11 Should 1 be so fortu- 
nate, neither she nor I 
will ever forget to whom 
we owe our happiness, and 
I my life," he answered. 

He had a gallant spirit, 
and had borne himself 
boldly and well, but he 
was weak from loss of 

blood; faintness overpowered him again; with 
a mutter of apology he sank into a chair, His 
white iace and closing eyes were enough to 
arouse all the alarm and solicitude of a nurse 
in Priscilla ; she fanned him until he re- 
covered, then ran for her cordial bottle and 
made him drink, and for food and made him 
eat. It was only now she realized how many- 
hours he must have been facing. 

The tramp of the marching soldiers had 
died away in the hot dust of the road when 
she presently explained that it would be ea_sy 
for him to get away in safety after nightfall. 
If the British had made a landing to the 
xjiith of the town, as it seemed was their 
commodores plan, a road she knew of 
through the wood would probably lead close 
to their pickets ; she would harness the horse 
and wagon and herself drive him as near as 
might be, Listening, wondering at her com- 
posure, he perhaps wondered, too, how Alice 
Carew would have borne herself in the place 
of the New England girl. But he said 
nothing beyond a fervent reiteration of his 




thanks, and rose obediently when she said 
that now he must rest and sleep. Glancing 
at the window with the words, she uttered an 
ejaculation, thiew open a door, and motioned 
him into the room beyond. 

" Go in — quickly ! They may see you," 
she exclaimed. 

" Soldiers ? " cried Daventry. He had 
caught a glimpse of blue by the gate. 
k * They have tracked me, then ! " 

** No, no — I am sure, no. They're from 
the town — there's a wagon — I understand. 
They've brought me somebody who is hurt 
to tend to. They know I've got everything 
fixed and ready. Quick, and I'll turn the 
key on you." 

She pushed him through, turned the key, 
slipped it into her pocket, and ran out, 
throwing open the house door. The group 
of men standing outside were in dusty blue 
uniforms ; one in advance wore a minister's 
black dress. She spoke quickly, not waiting 
to be addressed. 
I " I saw you, Mr. Burnett," she said. 
"You've brought me someone that's hurt. 
I'm glad you remembered that I'd have 
things ready. If there's more than one 
Martha and I will tend to them — I've five 
beds altogether. No ? Then who is it ? 
Is he very bad ? " 

There was a pause. The men shuffled 
their feet uneasily. The minister made a 
helpless gesture ; his large, rugged face was 
very pale. Priscilla with a gasp fell back 
from him — when she lay in her coffin she 
I would be no whiter. 
j "It is David!" she said. 
J The minister was an old man, with 
! daughters of his own. He laid his hand on 
her shoulder. 

"God comfort you, my child," he said, 
*ith solemn tenderness. " God help you to 

bear it ! " 

" He is dead ! " said Priscilla. 
The 'calm' of utter conviction was in her 
voice. The minister bowed his head. As 
for a moment she reeled and he caught and 
supported her, the roar of the guns boomed 
out again. It died into silence, and she put 
his hand away. Her dilated eyes were as 
blank as though she were blind, but her 
voice was quite steady. 

"1— shall not faint," she said. "Thank 
you, Mr. Burnett ; it was kind of you to come, 
but there's nothir ^ you can say. You have 
brought him here— to me ? " 
" Yes," said the minister, helplessly. 
" Yes," she repeated. " Alive or dead we 
belong to each other ; it's here he should 

come." She moved across the entry and 
threw open a door. " My room is ready — I 
got it ready. Will you tell them, please, to 
bring him in ? " 

The minister obeyed. Not a muscle of 
Priscilla's face moved as she watched the 
stretcher carried in and set down. As the 
soldiers, bare-headed and treading softly, 
went out, the old man moved to the bier, 
looking at her pityingly. 

" He is quite undisfigured, my dear," he 
said, gently. " He must have died almost 
instantly and without pain. He looks at 
peace. Will you see ? " 

She shook her head as he made a move- 
ment to raise the cloth that covered the dead 
man's face, motioned across the entry towards 
the sitting room, and led the way there. The 
minister began to speak and she checked 
him, holding up her hand. 

" Don't, please, Mr. Burnett," she said, 
steadily. "You're a good man and you 
mean kindly, but there isn't any comfort for 
me in all you can say. My David is dead." 
For a moment she waited, fighting fiercely 
for self-control. " I — heard the guns begin. 
It was— then ? " 

"No. It was in the night, my dear." 

"In the night!" 

" Yes. We cannot be sure of what 
happened — he was dead before anyone could 
teach him. He was on sentry duty " 

" Sentry duty ! " 

" and was heard to challenge and then 

fire. The shot was followed by another — 
the one that killed him. It is supposed that 
the British must have sent ashore spies or a 
spy, and that " 

" A spy ! " 

The former repetitions had been strained 
whispers ; this shrilled into a cry. The 
minister was not observant ; he hurried on. 

" It is so supposed, my dear. Had he 
been seen he might have been followed and 
captured, but that was not the case. It is 
not even known whether he was wounded 
— probably not, since he got away and 

" He got away and escaped ! " Priscilla 
repeated. She pointed to the door. " Will 
you wait, Mr. Burnett, and ask the soldiers 
to wait, for a few minutes, before you go 
back to the town ? " 

The minister, with a look of wonder, went 
out. Priscilla swung round to the locked 
door ; in a moment she had turned the key 
and flung it open. Daventry confronted her 
on the threshold with a face as death-white . 
as her own. 




"You need say nothing, " he said, hoarsely. 
il I heard/' 

She stood rigid, stating at him. 

" I went to the window and saw. Then I 
listened here. I know, now, what I have 

She did not move. 

11 1 heard what you said — you will denounce 
me as the spy who shot your lover — we both 
know what that means, I asked your mercy 
once — I don't ask it now, but there is a thing 
I think you will not refuse me* When I am 
dead, will you send this to Alice Carew, at 
Bideford, in Devon? And tell her— if I may 
ask so much — that, however else I died, it 

was at least as faithful to her as man can be 
to woman." 

He kissed the miniature and put it into 
her hand. There was no change in her 
fixed face as she took it and went out, 
Dave n try , listening to her footsteps crossing 
the outer room, waiting to hear those of the 
soldiers approach ing s said to himself that he 
would ask no moment of respite — would, on 
the contrary, beg them to he swift, lest a fit 
of faintness from his loss of blood should 
overpower him before it was done. The 
door opened again, and Priscilla stood there 

«?!SHpi™Sp^ said ' hoarsdy ' 



11 You have not?" Bewildered, inrredu- 
lous, he stared at her, and from her to the 
miniature she offered him in her extended 
hand. u You — you are sparing me?" he 

bi I have not said it," Priseilla repeated. 
For a moment her cairn failed her ; a 
* -b caught her throat. ** Oh ! " she cried, 
"1 couldn't do it— I couldn't tell them. I 
meant to— for a minute I meant it— hut I 
couldn't say the words ! I promised you- 
yoti trusted me— and you're only like a hoy ! 
And here's this lady you're going to marry — 
I can't break her heart too — I can't make 
her suffer what I've got to hear. You said 
you had a mother — like I fcivid. I couldn't 
dr> it ! '' 

"I wish his bullet had killed me ! " 
iKiventry said, with a groan. "1 wish> I 
swear, that I had been the one to die ! " 

* k You won't feel so to - morrow," said 
I'ri^illa, quietly. There was almost com 
passion for his distress in her eyes. " You'll 
think of her — your sweetheart — then, and 
remember that maybe your dying would have 
killed her too. 3 ' 

She paused — a spasm she could not quite 
control twisted her mouth awry. 

" + hs the fortune of war; it seems that 
says all there is to say. My David is dead, 
and you killed him. It might have been he 
lhal killed you. It wouldn't have been his 
blame, and it isnt yours. Things — just 
happen, But it seems hard on women that 
kings and such — they that make the trouble 

can't \\m\ a different way of putting their 
quarrels right — it seems sort of hard." 

* £ It is worse! ' Daren try groaned again, 
Tears rushed to his eyes as he met hers that 
were dry. "Oh," he broke out, passionately, 
"if I could thank you — if it were possible! 
But what words dare I use? May I die the 
day I forget you and my gratitude 1 And 
believe, I entreat you, that all my life I shall 
carry in my heart the grief of having broken 
yours. 1 ' 

He fell on his knee, as he caught and 
kissed her hand, Months afterwards, safe in 
England, at Alice C&rew's side, recounting to 
her, as he did very faithfully, the events of 
this day, he told his sweetheart that a princess 
could have taken the homage with no liner 
dignity. Indeed, as t'riscilla spoke and 
looked then he never in all his after life 
forgot her, but was wont to declare that once 
at least it had been vouchsafed lo him to see 
the face of an angel. And being young and 
of a tender heart, ;uul weak from his wound, 
and, moreover, torn by a very passion of pity 
and grief and gratitude, he sobbed as he 
knelt to her over the cruel fortune of war. 
She drew away the hand that was like ice to 
his touch, and went out to where the soldiers 
and the minister waited by the door. 

"I am sorry I kepi you, Mr* Burnett. 
There's nothing to wait for," site said, 

Her step was no less steady as she turned 
away. The booming of the guns rolled through 
the house again as she knelt beside her dead. 

eti by Google 

Original from 

Avm ci Pftvto. If Reginald ihunti. 

Portraits of Celebrities at Different Ages— New Series, 

ffeOMl ■] 

^■■i IJ. 


^Afllii. J* 1 

VA/HEN it was first reported 
' * that Professor Bryce was 
to be made British Ambassador to 
the United States, an American 
in London remarked, u Why, he 
always has been/' In the un- 
truth of this lay the tmLh of it, There 
is probably no man in English public life 
better fitted to fill this important diplo- 
matic (>ost than the man who during the 
past thirty years has been fitting himself 
for it unconsciously. His frequent visits to 
the United States, his wide experience of its 
institutions, and his impartial, lengthy study 
of its people, their performances and aspira- 
tions, which resulted in that masterly book, 
ifc The American Commonwealth "—-all have 
prepared him for his coming labours. That 
he is persona gratissima to the Americans 
there is no doubt. That his labours may 
prove pleasures is the hope of alL 

A pri/,e essay, written in Mr. Bryce's Oxford 
days, and prepared, in expanded form, for 
publication in 1 862, gave to its author a world- 
wide reputation, Mr. Bryce was then twenty- 
four. The book is now a classic. The honour 
accorded to it w T as only less than that paid 
to "The American Commonwealth," which 
appeared in 18SS, and immediately took its 

place with the able works of DeTocqueville and 
Von Hoist, It was the first time that an English- 
man had written on American institutions a book 
which did not offend because of unreasonable 
condemnation or fulsome praise. The book was 
prepared during a lull in his political life, when the 
defeat in 1886 of Mr, Gladstone's third Ministry 
gave Mr. Bryce a Jong holiday in America. He 
returned to enter the Cabinet of 1892 as Chan- 
cellor of the 
Duchy of Lan- 
caster, and took 
considerable part 
in framing the 
second Home 
Rule Bill When 
Lord Ro-sebery 
became Premier, 
Mr + Bryce be- 
came President 
of the Board of 
Trade, and when 
the present 
Liberal Govern- 
ment was formed, 
Mr, Bryce was 
made C h i e f Sec: re - 
tary for Ireland, 
an office for which 
his birth and 

ALrt IQ. 

[Mautt it (kf. 





From a Photo, hf HUk **" £fi Melons. 

sympathies had obviously fitted him. Need 
less to say, the loss of Ireland, owing to 
Mr. Bryces new appointment, will he the 
gain of the United States. 

Though actively connected with political 
and academic life for forty years, Mr, 
Bryee has found time for travelling and 
literary work. He has been called " the 
most versatile of living Englishmen," which 
would he (juite true had he not been 
bom in Ireland, son of a Scotch father 
and Irish mother, and educated in Glasgow, 
whence he went to Oxford. The honours 

AGE 36. 
From fl PbotoaTttjiA 

and degrees he has gained at the world's 
Universities would take this page to enume- 
rate, for, as one writer has said, "The 
constant wonder of his friends is how one 
small head can carry all he knows*" 

An excellent pen-picture of Mr. Bryee tells 
us that he is "a gaunt, grey man of sixty- 
eight years, with shaggy, white brows over- 
hanging eyes so remarkably keen that they 
compel notice. He is always attentively 
listened to by the House, which never fails 
to show respect to men who have great gifts 
linked with sincerity of purpose/* 

AGS 45, 

Jfom a FkoiV- bv Barra wf <* Jtnvr4 

From a Photo, hu Tht howim StertoKopu Gft. 

The Humours of Theatrical Posters. 

By George Lander. 

HE important part that pic- 
torial posters play in connec- 
tion with theatrical affairs must 
be obvious to anybody who 
gives the merest glance at the 
hoardings. Forty years ago 
theatrical pictorials were almost unknown, 
but with the introduction of the touring com- 
pany system they came gradually into pro- 
minence, and have continued to make head^ 
way until now, when scarcely any theatrical 
enterprise can be started without them. 

The leading situation in many dramas is 
usually one of pain or horror. Explosions, 
executions of all kinds, murders, fires, floods, 
shipwrecks, avalanches, railway collisions, 
battle scenes, deadly struggles on the verges 
of cliffs, and alarming falls into the depths 
below (usually done by acrobats in mo- 
mentary substitution for real actors who 
play the parts), fights in balloons, duels to 
the death (sometimes between women), 
burglaries, convict- prison scenes, the ghostly, 
the horrible, the utterly mysterious, and the 
thoroughly commonplace, are all to be 
found. Nearly everything that has hap- 
pened, might happen, or could not possibly 
happen under any circumstances has been 
pressed into the service of the British 
dramatist and illustrated in the pictorial poster. 

A strong family likeness, accompanied by 
not a few absurdities, is observable in many 
picture posters, especially in those which 
illustrate purely mechanical dramatic scenes. 
We have windmills with revolving sails that 
catch up and save heroines from villains, and 
water-mills to which they are cruelly bound 
for a dreadful death; bridges that break 
unexpectedly and let people, bad or good, 
according to the necessities of the scene, 
into the water; and sawmills in full work 
that all but cut the heroine into hakes on 
the moving plank where cold-blooded villainy 
has left her to die. These situations are 
varied by steam rollers and railway engines 
that nearly crush to death interesting people 
put in their way. One is anxiously awaiting 
the advent of the motor-car in the picture 
poster, but in England it has yet to come. A 
car laden with a party of aristocrats, shown 
in the act of running over a poor man's baby 
on a country road, would in itself be almost 
enough to ensure the success of a piece. 

One of our illustrations of this class of 
drama shows a marvellous rescue from ft 
burning house; with the rapture of the 
incendiary. The hero effects the rescue by 
swinging himself forward to a window of* his 
beloved's room by means of the chain of a 
stray derrick that fortune puts in his way in 

fyL moil— 27 

Reproduction by f*i-nii*tio)i 0/ David Allen d &m*. Limtted. Copvriffht. 



x he very nick of time. Above 
the bunting rafters of the first 
floor, and midei a table, lies 
an elderly gentleman, who 
sterns in some danger of 
being assumed, but who, we 
would tain hope, may yet be 
saved, According to all dra- 
matic laws, he should be the 
father of the young lady, and 
should survive to give his 
consent to the happy union 
of hi* daughter with her pre- 
server. There is, appropri- 
ately a good deal of moon- 
shine about this work of art 
In the second picture a 
\,mv perpendicular young 
|*erson, who does not seem 
much disturbed in her mind, 
\% observed clinging to a rope, 
which the villain above will 
certainly not succeed in 
cutting, though appearances 
seem so much in his favour. 
i h\v feels that the young lady 
will he steadily wound up 
hum behind the ruck by a 
si age carpenter — for she only 
ap|HWs to climb— and that 
she will succeed in reaching 
the top of the cliff and 
rescuing the man of her choice. But this 
interpretation is only conjectural. The 

Hejrrvilttdimt by tfcmuHwiutt *>f iMrut Allan 
«i junij. Limited Cvpjfrttfht. 

charm of these posters, when 
they are seen without their 
natural context of the play, 
is in their rich variety of sug- 
gestion. It is a fine exercise, 
both for the imagination and 
the critical judgment, to look 
at one as it stands by itself 
and try to find out all that it 
may possibly be about. 

The military drama, the 
naval drama (both with the 
usual arrest, trial by court- 
martial, condemnation to 
death, and reprieve ), and the 
drama of the thoroughly 
wicked woman who puts 
Lady Audley and Lady Mac- 
beth into the shade, have all 
been served up. The cata- 
logue includes the male and 
the female boxer drama, in 
which the hero or the heroine 
deals out pugilistic punish- 
ment to the villain, the drama 
of clerical hypnotism, the 
football drama, the racing 
play, and variations of the 
old u Streets of London " 
piece, with scenes at Charing 
Cross or I Bicester Square. 
*'The War Correspondent" 
is a very fine specimen of the poster of 
agonizing situation. The shark, we may fairly 

A TEVRIBLS FIGHT WiTK A/4ttJ W&tfs^LltJ - * •"! L I 
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hope and believe^ will not get a bite of the 
correspondent, in spite of his beautifully cor- 
rect curve. The knife will have given the 
monster a meal he little expects, in time to 
enable the distraught pair with the life-belt 
to reach the surface, and to find their way 
hack to all the comfort* of home, 

''This man, who, like a malignant cur, lies 
yelping at my feet," has evidently got the 
Koret of it at the hands of the tall, broad- 
shouldered young fellow in evening dress, 
»ho has him under foot and is supposed to 
be uttering the words. It is to be hoped 
the latter will temper justice with mercy, or 
public sympathy 
nuy veer round 
to a villain with 
out the ghost of a 

"Thou Shalt 
Hot Kill M is one 
of several posters 
equally thrilling 
and mysterious. 
This particular 
one may be said 
to throw the 
mystery of "The 
foddle of the 
Sphinx-" quite 
bio the shade. 
It Is agonizing to 
think that some 
*here in the dim 
recesses of theatri- 
cal records at the 
British Museum 

there may be some 
musty paragraphs 
which would make 
it all clear as day. 
Without that para- 
graph the mind 
stands appalled in 
conjecture. What, 
oh, what is it all 
about? What may 
it not signify ? 
The person in the 
middle, who may 
be described as a 
vision of Mr. No- 
body, seen in 
nightmare, evi- 
dently plays an 
important part in 
the scene. The 
lady on one side, 
to the 1 eft, is 
tolerably plain sailing. She is evidently 
an interesting character of romance about 
to be electrocuted. Beyond this all is 
dark. Is the seated figure on the other 
side a wardress or a monthly nurse ? Is the 
elderly gentleman, vainly shaking the barred 
gate on the O.V. side, a father, or a lover 
grown suddenly whity-grey with anguish ? 
Is he the bearer of a reprieve ? But, no ; he 
waves no paper. Is the lady who has 
succeeded in forcing the gate at the back 
a successful rival who has come to triumph 
in the success of her nefarious plot ? Then, 
again, what is the relationship to them, and 

A TIIB1M.ING 5CF1SE FROM *|Jlf4l^ Bft*4T V d 3 fr'MIt H I'-J.^- 

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to Mr- Nobody, 
of the haughty 
male figure in the 
background of 
the composi- 
tion ? We are 
evidently in one 
of the supreme 
moments of dra- 
matic fate- The 
moustache of the 
central figure, in- 
geniously utilized 
as the hands of 
the clock, evi- 
dently points to 
a decisive hour. 
What is that key 
in the white- 
robed victims 
lap? Is it the 
key of the situa- 
tion ? Does the 
gentleman at the 
gate want to get 
hold of it and 
oj>erate it on Mr* 
Nobody's inner 
organs, or on the 
box on the floor, 
for some good 
purpose? But 
why go on ? We reluctantly give it up. 

The next is decidedly an effective poster. 
One might tremble for the safety of the man 

JtcfjiWurifoN by ptrmitriutt tif Stagord *t Cu.. Litntied, 

below, but for the 
reflection that 
the huge piece of 
rock aliout to 
descend upon 
him is, in all pro- 
bability, simply a 
bag stuffed with 
feathers or wool. 
There are so 
many things fo 
distract the alien 
tion in the curi- 
ous windmill 
poster that is pre- 
sented that it is 
difficult to know 
on which it is 
best to concen- 
trate the eye, At 
the back there is 
a prostrate man 
in extreme danger 
of being run over 
by a huge advanc- 
ing engine and 
train j to the left 
is a young lady 
clinging to the 
sail of a windmill, 
in long - haired 
distress, with a 
lantern in her hand and real grace in 
her pendent form. If she falls, she too 
may be run over. In the centre is a wild 

/fejxnx!Mr(t»n Ay rCTfniHi'roi o/J 


it Co,. Limited. 



/ndian carrying off 
a girl ; to the left 
o^ the pair is yet 
another redskin, 
apparently desirous 
of forcing his 
attentions, by 
means of the pri- 
meval knife, upon 
a stout matron 
near by ; and down 
in the left-hand 
corner are an 
Indian and another 
man, so bewildered 
that they can only 
take notice of a 
portion of what is 
going on. What 
the whole joint 
action means would 
make an admirable 
prize puzzle, for 
which old stagers 


Reproduction bj peruuitftfn 0/ (h* DnxgrrjWd' PH*Hrtff Co,, Limited 



0/ ftovid Aftentf- Sum, Limited. 


might compete j but the writer would 
not, having In view the fear that, by 
doing so, he n light be only qualify- 
ing for Bedlam. 

As a specimen of a severe light- 
ning effect which is strong enough 
to make even a blind man see, the 
poster of " The Blind Witness n may 
be thoroughly recommended* It 
happens* curiously, that this bit of 
lightning hits the lady right in the 
eye, where the poster hits the public. 

Dramas are very plentiful in which 
a woman is always doing something 
with a revolver, either to threaten or 
check a person of unsound principles 
or to kill him outright. When used 
for the latter purpose, it often fails 
to "gooff" through nervousness on 
the part of the lady. The act-drop 
falls, and then, perhaps, the actress 
takes another lesson with the weapon, 
till at last the harmless necessary re- 
port is heard and the gods are satis- 
fied that it is "orl right," Frequently 
the woman aimed at falls to the 
ground before she is shot, as does 
the man ; but in the moonlit scene 
shown above it cannot be said that 
the foreign-looking gentleman in the 
white military coat gives any signs of 
showing the white feather, or that the 
revolver, from any cause, hangs fire. 

"Travelling managers of the ordi- 

iry kind, T + vho bjp-ineir contracts are 

2I 4 


hound to supply picture 
posters to the managers of 
theatres they are about to 
visit, often get into difficulties 
with their pictorial printer. 
Sometimes he will not send 
on the posters they require 
without the money for them, 
Meantime, they are worried 
with telegrams from the man- 
agers of theatres where they 
are shortly due, such as, " No 
printing arrived " ; " Send on 
printing at once, ornate will 
be cancelled." And there is 
the deuce to pay, until by 
some means the printer is 

Famous players, touring 
with their own companies in 
tragedy or comedy, do not 
need pictorials, although they 
sometimes use them. In the 
latter case they generally have 
them printed in sober tints, so 
that they not only appear re- 
fined and artistic, but stand 
out well from the usual full- 
coloured theatrical posters 
and trade posters 
which so much 
resemble them. 

There is a great 
deal of stock print- 
ing in use, and 
some of it comes 
from America. It 
consists of pic- 
torials designed to 
suit various jkinds 
of well known and 
approved plays, or 
ordered for produc- 
tions that have 
afterwards failed. 
It is often relabelled 
and used for the 
trial of a new piece, 
without bearing 
much resemblance 
to any scene in it. 
This is a great an- 
noyance to duped 
audiences, who are 
quick to perceive 
the trick. 

It puzzles one 
occasionally to 
decide to what par- 


Htf*rv*t uction hjf jiertmnvf urn trf Stnfurd A €c.+ 



Reproduction ftp pcrmUtum of David Allen it Stmt, Limit«L OopipriQht, 

ticular piece, period, or nation- 
ality a stock poster of an in- 
dividual character may have 
reference* In the case of the 
accompanying illustration, al- 
though it is supposed, by the 
dress, to show a Highlander, 
one is troubled to think to 
what particular clan the gentle- 
man belongs. In no work bear- 
ing on the interesting subject 
of the Highland dress can any 
costume at all approaching 
his be found. It is all his own 
invention. No Highlander out 
looting in the '45, after a suc^ 
cessful encounter with the 
English, ever got together 
such a number of incongruous 
articles for personal wear as 
are seen on the well-filled-out 
figure of this strange-looking 

Our last illustration seems 
to afford an excellent example 
of the perfect get-up of the 
hero who effects marvellous 
rescues without in the least 
disordering his attire. The 
hero (certainly it 
must be the hero) 
who effects the 
rescue in this case 
might have been 
just turned out from 
a West-end toilet 
saloon. Observe 
the beautifully-par- 
ted hair and fault* 
less moustache, 
He is so excellently 
groomed, too. He 
seems to be gliding 
with all the smooth- 
ness of a perfect 
aeroplane to earth, 
or heaven. As re- 
gards the lady> what 
fault could be found 
with her ? Cer- 
tainly none. The 
mechanical ar- 
rangements that 
contribute to this 
effect are equally 
perfect. Moreover, 
there is patriotism 
■ jp. ithe use of the 
|lJ OTion Jack, 

fy Mjjfaf§&. 

ELL, how is it to-day s doctor?" 
11 Splendid ; even better 
than I expected. There isn't 
any doubt about the success 
of the experiment now," 
" Thank Heaven for that ! 
My suffering hasn't been in vain, then." 

" Nor my mental anguish," added the 

" Nor the sacrifice of my ear," continued a 
third man. 

They were in a room of the physician's 
residence. On two narrow cots, placed end 
to end, lay two men, their bodies strapped 
down, their feet extending in opposite direc- 
tions, and their heads held close together in 
a plaster cast, so that they were immovable 
even for a fraction of an inch, This position 
they had occupied for several days, staring 
blankly at the ceiling or listening to a phono- 
graph which an attendant kept going in the 
next room. 

One of the men was understood to be a 
wealthy Southerner, whose object in coming 
to New York first became known when a 
re porter in vest! gated an advertisement offering 
five thousand dollars for a healthy man's ear, 
of certain shape and dimensions, to be grafted 
on to the head of the advertiser. Among 
the several hundred people who professed a 
willingness to part with an ear in considera 
tion of the sum mentioned was a young man 
who gave the name of Samuel Starr. After 
the physician in charge of the matter had 
declared Mr Starr's ear to be perfectly satis 
factory in every way a contract was drawn 

up, signed, and witnessed^ and arrangements 
were made for the transfer. This was tc be 
accomplished by severing the upper half of 
the ear from Starr's head, twisting it round, 
and grafting it to the head of the purchaser. 
If that part of the experiment proved suc- 
cessful the lower half was then to be treated 
in like manner ; if not, the ear would still be 
serviceable to its natural possessor. 

"This operation has been talked about 
so much that my reputation hangs on its 
success ; failure would be a terrible blow to 
me professionally," said Dr + Spicer; u but 
everything seems to indicate that by to-morrow 
we can cut off the rest of the ear and release 
you gentlemen from your uncomfortable posi- 
tion. It will be a great relief to all of us." ' 

"It certainly will. This Siamese Twin 
business isn't what it's cracked up to be. I 
suppose you feel the same way about it, 

" Yes ; that money isn't so easily-earned as 
I thought it would be, but I'm satisfied*" 

" So am L You can't imagine what annoy- 
ance and inconvenience I've suffered by not 
having two ears, I begin to feel like a new 
man already." 

"These little things do count," agreed 
Starr, ,E and I've no doubt I shall be able to 
get another ear for a thousand dollars. By 
the way, are you ready to tell me how you 
lost yours ?" 

lt That's something I seldom speak of, but 
perhaps you ^WfiaPfrdriflkt *° know. I* 

I went^k^'^Vtt^rialy^e night and 



found another man in my room. The clerk 
had given it to him by mistake. When I 
went in the man thought I was a burglar, 
I suppose, and he attacked me. During the 
scuffle I turned out to be more than a match 
for him, so he grabbed a knife, made a slash 
at me, and cut off my ear completely. Then 
he came at me with more serious aim, and in 
order to save my life I was obliged to shoot. 

would be in danger. The thought that I have 
been lying here day and night joined to a 
murderer is enough to drive rne mad I" 

Fortunately for the peace of mind of both 
patients, the attendant found I.)i\ Spicer less 
than a block away and summoned him to 
return with all possible speed 

"What in the world is the matter ?* he 
asked, consternation written upon his face. 



I missed him> but he was so scared that he 
jumped through a window and- — " 

" What was his name ? " 

" Holloway." 


" Holloway — T. Jefferson Holloway." 

"Then you're Hiram P, Stevens?*' 

" Yes ; how did you know that ? " 

" Oh, you scoundrel ! No wonder you 
tried to keep your identity secret." 

u Why, Starr, what's the matter with you ? " 

" Don't ' Starr ' me ! I'm no Starr. Wash- 
ington, whores 1 >r. Spir^r? " 

"He done gone out, suh, ,J gasped the 
amazed attendant. 

"Send for him; and get him here in a 
hurry, too." 

" Why, this is most " began the wealthy 


" Don't you dare speak to me ! r? roared 
Starr. " If I had my hands free your life 

"This operation must stop, doctor, " satd 
Starr, white with rage ; "you've got to undo 
what has already been done and restore my 
ear ! " 

11 Restore your ear ! "gasped the astonished 
physician. "But you can't go hack on your 

" Contract— nothing ! " shouted the young 
man ; then he proceeded, more calmly: l< My 
name is Paul Holloway. That contract is 
signed by Samuel Starr, and Samuel Starr 
has no right to sell my ear." 

" But whatever your name is, you signed 
the contract" 

"That makes no difference ; and if you 
cut off the rest of my ear I'll sue you for 

"And if he cuts off my half of it I'll sue 
him for damage*," retorted Stevens, heatedly- 



you or me, and I swear I'll never give up my 
half of it If you want it back, you can sue 
me for it.* 

"Try to be calm, gentlemen. I'm afraid 
this dispute will have a most unfortunate 
effect on both of you. What caused you to 
change your mind, Mr. St — Hollo way?" 

" IVe just learned thai this is the man who 
attacked my uncle in a Western hotel and 
drove him to his death. If it weren't for 
that fact, I shouldn't be so hard pressed for 
money now. You can easily understand, 
doctor, that I don't care to mutilate myself 
in order to repair the damage caused by my 
poor uncle in trying to defend himself." 

" Well, I was only trying to defend myself, 
too," protested Stevens ; " besides^ it's all your 
own fault about the ear ; if you'd given your 
own name in the first place, you wouldn't 
have been accepted for the 'mutilation.' " 

" Well, here I am, and I've changed my 
mind," was the frosty response. 

" But I haven't changed mine yet," retorted 
Stevens ; " the bargain's entirely satisfactory 
to me," 

" Then you know that contract isn't worth 
the paper it's written on/' 

11 It was signed in the presence of reliable 
witnesses, and that settles it If the opera- 
tion hadn't gone so far, I'd be glad enough 
to let you off, for it isn't going to be any 
great pleasure to carry round your ear the 
rest of my life, But for you to buck out 
now is out of the question." 

" That's the way I look at it," ventured 
Dr. Spicer, trying to smooth things over, 
" You came of your own free will and made 
the bargain, Mr. Hollo way, and I dare say 
you will view the matter in another light 
before morning. Think what a great help to 
you the money is going to be." 

" Til think nothing of the kind ; my mind 
is firmly made up," was the curt reply, 

"So is mine," reiterated Stevens, 

Dr, Spicer gazed at the two angry, helpless 

li It puts me in an awkward position/ 1 he 
finally said ; " I must think it over awhile." 

" No need to think it over j the matter is 


" Satisfactory or not," mocked Hollo way, 
"nobody would dare to cut off my ear 
against my will/' 

11 The ear isn't yours, young man. Title 
to that ear passed to me when the contract 
was signed I know some law myself," 

V&l. xxxiiL— 28. 

already settled/' persisted Holloway, u for as 
long as I have lung- power to rouse the neigh- 
bourhood, you'll not touch my head. I 
don't like to make trouble, but this is final." 



think it over calmly and come to a sensible 
conclusion, Hullo way," 

When the doctor returned from his inter- 
rupted round of visits he paced his office in 
deep thought. He was plainly troubled. 
Here was a beautiful bit of handiwork 
jeopardized by the crankiness of the material 
he was working on, and the more he thought 
it over the more he became convinced that 
heroic measures were called for. A grim 
look crept over his face, 

" 111 do it ! " he ejaculated, and struck his 
hands together to emphasize his resolution. 

Late that night the doctor stole into the 
room where the Siamese Twins lay sleeping 
and skilfully chloroformed young Hollo way. 
Then he roused Stevens and unfolded 
his plan. The latter gentleman chuckled 
audibly as he signified his approval. The 
lights were turned up T more chloroform was 
administered, and preparations to complete 
the work were soon made 

In less than an hour the operation was 

give him his freedom by degrees, if I were 
you.' 1 

Holloway was just waking up when 1 )r, 
Spicer entered. 

" Good morning, doctor, I want to 
apologize for the unreasonable way I acted 
toward you yesterday. This business has 
got on my nerves so that I lost my head. 
The operation may go on as soon as youYe 
ready. I'm terribly hard up — right on my 
upi>ers, in fact — and so I must make the best 
of a bad situation, I suppose." 

"That's the sensible thing to do/' he 
replied, pleasantly. " You ought to sign the 
contract with your real name first, though." 

t4 Just loosen my arm f then, and I'll sign it," 

Or, Spicer bent over and did what his 
[ratient asked. Then, after loosening the 
other bandages, he put the signed paper in 
his pocket, and said : — 

** Now you can get up and stretch yourself 
old man." 

u But my ear? How can I ? " 


finished, Stevens was removed to another 
room, and the doctor dismissed his assistants 
and went to bed. 

The next morning, before going to do 
battle with young Holloway, he called to see 
that Stevens was comfortable, and found that 
gentleman enjoying the relief from his nerve- 
racking position of the past few days. 

11 There'll be some fireworks when my 
Other half sees you this morning, doctor ; I'd 

by Google 

"Oh, that's all over; your ear's upstairs, 
and the sum of five thousand dollars is yours 
as soon as you ask for it." 

Holloway stared at the vacant cot, 

11 1 ^uess y UU s tole a march on me, 

"No; we caught you napping," laughed 
the physician. 

M Well, I'll be hanged I I never knew 
was such a sound sleeper/' 

Original from 




^w- ' w 



"IT HE Chinese entertain many very curious 
* ideas of the unseen world* The punish- 
ments reserved for the wicked are supposed 
to correspond to the punishments for crime 
on earth, The pictures reproduced here are 
the work of native artists. The judicial 
proceedings are represented as conducted 
after the manner of criminal trials in Chinese 
Courts of Justice. 

After passing the entrance to the great 
hell, shown in illustration No. i, the dead 
person comes to the bank of a river corre- 
sponding to the Styx, where sits an old 
hag— a sort of Proserpine — who strips off 
the clothes from the new arrivals and hangs 
them on a tree 
behind her> as 
seen in illustration 
No, 2. She has 
eyes like burning 
wheels, and she 
dispatches the con- 
demned souls along 
their respective 
roads in accordance 
wiili the judgment, 
but sometimes she 
delays them with 
impossible, endless 
tasks of heaping up 
stones on the banks 
of the Styx, and so 
prolongs their 

The hot and cold 
hells stand in tiers. 

one upon another, 
beginning at a 
depth of eleven 
thousand nine hun- 
dred miles below 
the surface of the 
earth, and reach to 
a depth of forty 
thousand miles; 
eafih hell has four 
gates, out side which 
are four ante hells. 
The atmosphere 
of the hells is of 
the deepest black. 
Each hell is enve- 
loped by a wall of 
fire, and the inge- 
nuity of the tor- 
ments would serve 
to illustrate Dante's Inferno, Indeed, it has 
been suggested that Dante must have seen a 
Buddhist picture of these hells before writ- 
ing hts famous classic, so remarkable is the 
agreement between them. 

The punishments of offenders vary in 
degree and intensity. The bodies of some are 
thrown to tigers, as shown in illustration No- 3, 
and, like the liver of Prometheus, their bodies 
are never diminished, though perpetually 
d e vou red . Some are bei ng i neessan t ly p i er c e d 
with sharp-pointed arrows, while others are 
bound to red- hot funnels of brass. These 
wretched men return to the earth as monsters. 
The Chinese Inferno is divided into ten 

1 Go off l 

2 JO 


no, 3 


suspended b v 
hooks. The vir- 
tuous, who are re- 
warded in this king 
dom,arc those who 
have provided 
coffins at their own 
expense for the 
decent interment 
of the poor. 

The next king 
dom represented is 
supposed to be 
under that portion 
of the sea which 
coast of China. It 
is ruled over by 
Pin ■ shing Won;;, 


I <** 

kingdoms, tn each 
of which a different 
kind of crime is 
punished. Illustra- 
tion No, 4, for tar 
stance, represents 
the fourth king- 
dom, said to be 
under the eastern 
sea, It is ruled over 
by Oon - Koon 
Wong. Those 
come to it who 
have not paid their 
taxes or their house 
rents ; physicians 
who have ad- 
ministered medi- 
cines of an inferior quality to their patients ; 
silk mercers who have sold bad silk ; persons 
who have not given place to the aged or blind 
in the streets or 
public assemblies ; 
men who have wil- 
fully destroyed 
grain crops or who 
have removed their 
neighbours' land- 
mark ; drunkards, 
busybodiesj gam- 
blers, and brawlers 
are also confined 
to this place of 
torture. Some are 
thrown into large 
pools of blood ; not 
a few are ground or 
pounded in mor- 
tars, and others are 




who deals out punishment to men who are 
always complaining of the weather ; to sacri- 
legious thieves who scrape the gold from idols; 






to those who worship the gods without having 
first cleansed the body ; to readers of wicked 
books and those who destroy good books, 
and to those who wantonly waste rice. The 
thieves who have scraped gold from idols 
and those who have destroyed good books 
are hanged up and flayed alive ; those who 
have been dissatisfied and grumbled at the 
weather are sawn asunder, as seen in 
illustration No. 5 ; whilst other offenders are 
made to kneel with their knees uncovered 
upon sharp pointed iron spikes. The virtuous 
are recompensed who have contributed of 
their substance to funds established (or the 
erection and endowment of temples. 

The seventh kingdom, which is said to be 
situated under the north western ocean, is 
governed by Ti-shan Wong. Physicians who 
make medicine of human bones, which are 
Found scattered about in large numbers in 
Chinese graveyards, are here boiled in oil 
(illustrated in No. 6), Robbers of tombs, 
schoolmasters who neglect their pupils, 
oppressors of the poor and of their neigh- 
bours, and those 
who seek to curry 
favour with the 
wealthy and great 
are also arraigned 
before Ti - shan 
Wong, The rob- 
bers of tombs he 
commands to be 
thrown into vol- 
canoes. It is sup- 
posed, however, 
that persons who 
have been guilty of 
any of these 
offences can atone 
for them in this 
lit by purchasing 

birds exposed for 
sale at a poul- 
terer's shop and 
giving them 
their freedom, 
or by providing 
coffins for the 
decent interment 
of pauj>ers 3 who, 
in the absence of 
poor - houses, are 
occasionally found 
dying or dead at 
the corners of the 
streets of Chinese 
towns. The 
good whom this king recompenses are 
those who have let blood from their arms 
or legs, in order that they may save a 
sick parent whose only chance of recovery 
the physician has declared to lie in a 
medicine of which this forms the principal 

The eighth kingdom is ruled over by Ping- 
ting Wong. As shown in illustration No, 7, 
housewives who have cared more for the 
drying of their linen than for the comfort of 
departed spirits are here plunged into a 
lake of blood, Punishment is also inflicted 
there upon women who have hung clothes out 
to dry upon the housetops— a proceeding 
which the Chinese regard as highly displeasing 
to departed spirits, with whose flight through 
the air it is supposed to interfere. Undutiful 
sons are metamorphized into animals or 
trampled under the hoofs of horses. Men 
who have been guilty of ingratitude are cut 
asunder Persons who have contributed to 
the wants of mendicant Buddhist friars are 
rewarded here. 

HO. 7 + — WUMKti WHU MAV-: CARM) HOUR *■'«>« THI ©rM[fRn9 l ^fT®1 ? iri P " H rM1 CoMKJRr 




IN Jersey City, U.S. A,, there are two of the 
* strangest clubs in the country. These 
societies were organized for the sole purpose 
of pouring balm into the wounds of jilted 
lovers and of planning means of revenge 
upon false ones. 

The first club, appropriately railed 
" Heartsease/' is composed of young women 
who have suffered disappointment in love. 
The organization was to he a secret, but it 
reached the ears of some of the young men 
of the town who had a similar grievance, 
They thought the club a capital idea, and 
immediately formed a brother society, which, 
with apparent facet iousness, they called the 
" Heartseasers." Every man, to be eligible, 


From n Photo 

must be a discarded, disconsolate, heart- 
broken lover. 

The girls were mad as March hares when 
they learned of the " Heartseasers." 

While they were going about looking for 
someone to scratch, one of the " Hearts 
easers" found a friend in the enemy's camp, 
and, after a lt heart-to-heart " talk, convinced 
her that the " Easers" were a friendly 
organization and, far from poking fun at the 
girls, their chief object was to comfort and 
assist Lhem, and in return to be guided back 
to peace and comfort by their fair hands. 

The talk ended with an invitation from 
the il Heartseasers" to the " Heartsease " to 
a meeting of the former club. After deliberate 
consideration this was accepted* and, it 

being decided that their union would bring 
strength, a motion was made that the two 
organizations, while in a measure working 
independently, should also labour in unison, 
with monthly mass meetings to make plans 
and present reports. 

Helen Johnson is the president of the 
" Heartsease/' and one wonders how such a 
delightfully charming young woman ever got 
there, or anywhere in the club 

George B. Dawson is president of the 
brother club, and he is sustained by three 
gloomy officers, Harold Dewight, Ross P« 
Leroy, and Jack Fairfaield. 

The object of the two clubs, individually 

and in unison, is to boycott every girl or boy, 

woman or man, who has trifled 

in any way with another's 


In considering the claims of 
a candidate there must be no 
extenuating circumstance, elst! 
the applicant for membership 
is blackballed. For instance, 
should a girl apply for admis- 
sion to the u Heartsease," and 
in being cross examined at a 
mass meeting of the two clubs 
it should leak out that in a spirit 
of mischief she had sorely tried 
the patience of her fiance by 
flirting with a rival, the united 
protection leagues w T ould do 
nothing whatever to assuage 
the pangs of her self-inflicted 

rhe initiation of a new 
member is an impressive and 
most interesting ceremony. 
When someone applies for membership he 
or she is requested to secure two sponsors 
who will vouch for the correctness of the 
statements made to the examining board. A 
call is then sent to the members of each club, 
and a full meeting is held, at which the four 
officers of each organization preside, and the 
final registering is done by the president at 
the close of a rigid examination. The formal 
questions are as follows :— 

What is your full name and address? 

The name and suUlri-s* of the per^m who has 
discarded your honest love ? 

po you promise to forswear all intercourse wilh the 
inner? . 

Have you i^tM±ti alltUdThaterial evidence of the 






Will you promise to steadfastly deny all overtures 
which may in the future he made by the trtfler U> 
reclaim your affection or friendship? 

Do you consent Lo allow these organisations to use 
your story, your name, and the name of the person 
who has wronged you for the benefit of some other 
member who might uThcruise he entrapped? 

Can you honestly say that you are in no way Lo 
blame for the rupture which bring* you before us ? 

Will you do everything in your power to promote 
the interests of these united urbanizations? 

Do you believe in the sacred n ess of an engagement ? 

When yon became engaged was your purpose 
honourable marriage ? 

Stale your case in fall, with the know- 
ledge that every word will be taken down 
and recorded in our hooks, which are open 
lo the perusal of every 111 ember of this 
joint organization. 

The would be member is then 
told to stand forth and take the 
oathj raising the right hand and 
clasping the left with a full-fledged 
member of the opposite club in 
token of friendship. The exact 
nature of this oath lias as yet not 
been revealed. It is zealously 
guarded, and no amount of coaxing 
or bribing could secure it for 

The oath taken, the members 
form themselves into rings, the girls 
in the inner ring, usually five in 
number, and the men forming an 
outer protective ring about them. 

The president of one of the clubs 
then reads the following, which the 
girls repeat after her ; *' We, the 
members of the Heartsease, do 
solemnly swear to for ever abandon 

our false loves and to ever be 
true to the affection within us 
whenever awakened \ to give to 
the members of the Heartsease 
and to the members of the 
Heartseasers whatever assistance 
lies in our power to render in 
keeping alive the honesty of 
love in our community, and in 
bringing the false ones to judg- 

Mr* George B. Dawson then 
reads the same formula while his 
club repeats it after him, and to 
it he adds : i% We, the Hearts- 
easers, do promise to protect 
every member of the Heartsease 
against further injury, and to do 
everything in our power to right 
their wrongs ; to expose every 
man of our acquaintance who 
has falsely wooed a girl, and 
to give him for ever the cold shoulder, ,? 

This somewhat solemn rite ends with a 
merry ring-around-a-rosy dance, and the club 
proceeds to new business. 

All this happens on club nights. In the 
meanwhile every member is supposed to go 
:ibout gathering statistics. If a (t Heartseaser * 
hears of a man who has been false to a girl 
he hunts him up— or hounds Rim down — 
gets his story, notifies his president and the 
president of the " Heartsease," and then 

N V 




,,il fronn 





commences war 
against the man, 
and a campaign to 
get the girl to join 
the club. 

Whether or not 
she joins, the false 
ones name is en- 
tered on the books, 
and after his case 
has been thoroughly 
investigated, and it 
Hlis been proved 
that he has no 
excuse for his das- 
tardly action, he is 

This means all 
the girls of Jersey 
City are warned 
against him — the 
u Heartsease ,? sees 
to this, and the 
" Easers " assist ; 
that he will be "turned down" by every 
member of the clubs ; and that all members 
will do their best to get their friends to give 
him the cold shoulder. 

For any member to be in friendly relations 
with a false lover means expulsion from the 
club and the fastening of the boycott upon 
the backslider No member of the ** Easers ,J 
— so he has pledged himself — will marry a 
girl who is down in the club books as "false"; 
no girl will marry a man with a like title after 
his name, no matter how penitent he may 
seem to be nor how ardently he swears his 
undying affection. 

A great many surprises have been sprung 



among the social 
sets of Jersey City, 
for no one is spared 
if he or she has 
erred, Such active 
watch dogs dothese 
determined young 
people prove that 
it is impossible to 
escape even though 
one leaves the city 
for a while on some 
seemingly plausible 
pretence. When the 
guilty one returns, 
feeling safe after 
the expiration of 
the customary nine 
days of wonder- 
ment have elapsed, 
he will find all desir- 
able doors barred 
to him and himself 

Although a member who proves his or her 
eligibility is forbidden to patch up a quarrel 
or to take into favour again the false love 
under any conditions, those who apply for 
membership and are refused because they are 
obliged to acknowledge that the fault was 
partly theirs are encouraged to take the first 
step towards a reconciliation, and each 
member of these clubs for the protection of 
proper sentiment endeavours to help matters 
along. If peace is declared a certain amount 
is drawn from the fund and an elegant gift is 
presented to the united couple on their 
wedding day, bearing the simple inscription 
" Expressing the joy of the H.E/s." 




DEADERS of this article are probably 
' * aware that the devices which are in- 
delibly stamped in tLe substance of a sheet 
of paper during its manufacture have given 
names to several of the present standard 
sizes of paper. For example, foolscaps crmvn % 
elephant^ and post sheets have derived these 
names from their respective water- marks, the 
device of a postman's horn being the origin 
of post. 

A knowledge of water- marks and of the 
period when each was used is of great service 
to students of ancient manuscripts, and also, 
amongst others, to collectors of autograph 
letters, who must necessarily be on their guard 
against the ingenuity of the autograph-forger- 

Hovvever, it is not proposed to give instruc 

ttons to the general reader upon a subject 
that is so essentially technical as the study of 
water marks, but merely to put before I urn 
some facsimiles of various ancient and curious 
devices used by paper-makers of bygone days* 
It is impossible, of course s that the paper- 
makers of four or five hundred years ago, 
when they designed their water-marks, could 
have had any intention of supplying some 
relatively close caricatures of persons and 
incidents that are sufhi iently familiar to thepre- 
sent generation of their descendants ; it must 
t>e due to coincidence, and to coincidence 
alone, that no great stretch of the imagination 
is wanted.-. to ■ recognise in the following 
facsimiles certain resemblances to some 
notablB I Mr^rt^^ wl^filifjpresent day. 


The first illustration is not now given as a 
caricature, but as a curiosity in these devices* 
The umbrella-like object with the pump- 
handle attached is intended, 
i apparently, for a cross - bow ; 
umbrellas had not at that date 
evolved, and cross-bows were on 
the wane, 
Nos. 2 and 3 appear to be 
violently antagonistic. The for- 
mer, a sort of lion, is rampantly 
fighting with vigour and energy 
stamped upon every inch of him, 
while the rather "cheeky ?t and 
aggressive attitude of his younger 
opponent— also with his back 
well " up "—looks as if the latter 
meant business. 
E^dhiT^ There is much quiet sdf-pos- 

**tf j * r ** session about No + 4, who looks 
as if he knew more than he in- 

No. 4.- 

Water-nwtrk pf 

NV t— Water-mark uf (401. Xo. > — Water-marL nf 1 40?. 

tended to say. The right ear curls over the 

wow, similarly to a lock of hair, and there 

s a quaint little "goatee" beard under the 

chin. Now this device 

and that shown in No, 5 

*eem to be connected. 

The letters NIEBE, 

when trans [josed, give 

I.E. BEN. The top 

part of the design, 

with a sort of coronet 

and a big B, is associated 

_ with Beaconsfield (Earl), 

• and the lower part with Ben. 

i IT Israeli — namely, with />< 

JL Ben. Both these water- marks 

„^^£^L^* were designed more than three 
YHHB hundred years ago, No. 5 wiih 
^^^W the letters exactly as they are 
V*4 given here, and No, 1 with its 
^^^^^■' expression suggest ivt ol the 
™ P^ late Benjamin I) Israeli. 

^g|jjj No, 6 is rather singular, 

^■■—31^ A somewhat eccentric animal 

*l3k^&£ ha * apparently teen "going 
[04, medium for " a crown, or some bauble 

t*p* o^hr^e rf that gor ^ an( j he does nQl 

VaL sxiuir— 29- 

j+ fa seem any too well 

-J| ^^ftr^ disposed towards 

T ^^^^^^^^ lL This device was 

{ I used for a " cam- 

No. 6.— Wiuerm:irkofi5j4, u^d mon paper," a fact 

for common paper. ■_ * i_ ^l 

which proves that 
the artist who designed it in the year 1534 
could not have had any idea of a present- 
day Radical in his mind t or, if he had, 
then this artist had but little regard for 
truth. No. 7 looks like the sole of someone 
else's foot, with the toe directed 
upwards, but, whatever may be 
its meaning, it is certainly a 
funny little water-mark. 

You will notice that Nos, 8 
and 9 are associated as father 
and son. No. 8 is a particularly s T r 7 .- 
" ugly customer H to tackle— he w«i«iMfc 
has a formidable and sharp °g^ S pa pe r. ' 
" sting " at each end — while the 
son, No. 9, appears to emulate his father. 
If these two bodies were straightened out 
they would have a strew-like appearance ; if 
it were not for the coronet on the head we 
might almost think that this ancient de- 
sign er of wa t er m a rk s 
knew something 
about Messrs. j. and 
A. Chamberlain ; hut 
perhaps, when he 
added the coronet, 
the artist of 1496 
looked ahead. 

There is a marked 
difference between 
Nos, 10 and 11. 
The former has a \<vb.— w a t«* mark of 15*3, 

. * . ,f „u:i„ mark of 1496: twenty-*!* 

certain air oF philo- ^^ white ^ yea «yo UT i KW 
sophical equanimity s™ 1 - than Ko - B - 

about it which is 

not disturbed by the very threatening attitude 
of Nn. r 1, There is, however, an expression 
about the eyes of No. ro, and a pose of the 
head and foot, which distinctly bring to mind 
the famous " Blondin Donkey," as performed 
in London some years ago by the Griffiths 
Brothers. Now, that Blondin I kmkey was no 
fool —at least, not when he was performing- - 
and he could and did hit out pretty straight 
at times, notwithstanding the usual calmness 

r-nwk used in 
, thick paper . 



of his demeanour. The characteristics of our 
eleventh device are aggressiveness— which 
is seemingly disregarded by No. 10 — a 
thing at the back which looks like part of 
a torn coat-tail, and a kind of emblem stick- 
ing out in front which is not unlike a sham- 
rock leaf. The animal itself (No. n) might 
be intended for a hog. One of its hind 
legs is in just the attitude of that attached to 
a pig once seen in Ireland, with a cord tied 
round its leg. The person who was in 
charge of this pig was pulling it backward , 
the pig resented the action and went forward, 
which, as was subsequently ascertained, was 
really the direction aimed at by the attendant, 
who. had resorted to this little artifice to 
attain her end. 

Water-mark No. 12 represents a kind of 

angelic personage. Two ideas 

,^j present themselves in connec 

No. 13. — Water-mark of the timr of 

Henry VIII. : paper smaller than fools 

cap and rather fine for' the age. 

No. 12. —Water- 
mark of 1563 : fine 

tion with No. 13 : the first, 
that a paper-maker in want of 
a new water-mark at the time 
of King Henry VIII. amused himself with 
the still extant childish game of drawing a pig 
with the eyes shut — the eye of the pig to be 
inserted — and that in his attempt he mixed 
up the two ends of the animal. The second 
idea suggested by No. 13 — but this is merely 
the shade of a shadow of a suspicion — is that 
Mr. Balfour indulges in this innocent pastime 
when, with flexed limbs and closed eyes, he 
listens, or pretends not to listen, to vehement 
denunciations of his own evil doings. 

The next illustra- 
tion (No. 14) reminds 
one of an animal 
No. i4.-water-mark of i 53 6. being violently 

dragged in a direc- 
tion to which he objects, and hav- 
ing his neck unduly lengthened 
in the process. No. 15 recalls 
the last gasp of an ardent M.P. 
just before the application of the 
Closure strangles him. 

Water-marks 16 and 17 may 
be looked at together ; the 
pathetic and yet pugnacious 
demeanour of the individual 
depicted in No. 17 must No. 15- -Water 
surely denote "a patriot " who '^"^T^ir! 91 

is deploring and vehemently de- 
nouncing another injustice to his 
country. His coat - tails are a 
shade long, perhaps. Can it be 

No. to.— Water-mark of 149*: stout. No. 17.— Water-mark ol 
thick paper. 1539 : common paper. 

that he is also inviting another personage to 
tread upon them, and that the formidable 
creature shown in No. 1 6 is advancing to the 
attack ? 

There is a distressful look about No. 18 ; 
its lengthened visage seems worn with pain 
and labour. We can well fancy that, should 
this excellent animal be required to control 
the actions, say, of the pair shown in Nos. 
1 6 and 17, he would find the 
task too much for him. 

The figure represented by 
the ancient water-mark of 1546, 
shown in No. 19, has a mas- 
siveness of build and a protu- 
berance of brow which some- 
how suggest a certain noble No. 18.— Water- 
Marquess, now dead. The ™«u paper." 
paper - maker who used this 
device, or his designer, has commenced 
a sort of formal appeal, beginning with 

O MAR- . Then, in most unseemly 

fashion, he has turned an N upside down 
to see how it looked, been dissatisfied with 
the result of his experiment, and written 
another N in the usual way. To what does 
this incomplete appeal refer, and why this 
experiment with the N, which is the initial 
letter of the word NO ? Could this paper- 
maker of the year 1546 have been located 
in Belfast, and, like some of his brother- 
workmen, whose water - marks have been 
reproduced here, have been in the habit 
of indulging in visions of the long -dis- 
tant future? We cannot say, but we may 
notice that the "near" fore-foot of No. 19 
is an impressive and 
weighty foot, and that 
it is raised — presum- 
ably there is the inten- 
tion of putting it down 
upon something. What 
can that something 




o. 19.— Water-mark of 
1546 : good paper. 







HOSE of my reader* who have 
gone about much with an in- 
visible companion will not need 
to be told how awkward the 
whole business is. For one 
thing, however much you may 
have been convinced that your companion is 
invisible, you will, I feel sure, have found 
yourself every now and then saying, " This 
must be a dream ! " or " I know I shall wake 
up in half a secl ? ' And this was the case 
with Gerald, Kathleen, and Jimmy as they 
sat in the white marble Temple ot Flora, 
looking out through its arches at the sun- 
shiny park and listening to the voice of the 
enchanted Princess, who really was not a 
princess at all, but just the housekeeper's 
niece, Mabel Prowse ; though, as Jimmy said, 
4i she was enchanted, right enough/' 

You will remember that Mabel, while 
acting the part of an enchanted Princess, had 
put on a ring that she found in the castle 
u here her aunt was housekeeper. She had 
said— little thinking that she spoke the truth 
—that it was a magic ring which would make 
her invisible. And to her honor and amaze- 
ment it was— and it had ! 

"It's no use talking/ 5 she said again and 
again, and the voice came from an empty- 
looking space between two pillars ; " I never 
belitved anything would happen, ^nd now it 
" Really," said Gerald, " I don T t know what 

Copyright. 1007, 

we tan do with the girt. I^et her come 
home with us and have ---" 

"Tea — oh, yes," said J immy; jumping up. 

" And have a good council." 

"After tea," said Jimmy. 

" But her aunt'U find she's gone/' 

"So she would if I stayed," said the voice. 

l£ Oh, come on/' said Jimmy. 

" But the aunt'll think something's 
happened to her.'" 

"So it has." 

"And she'll tell the police," said the hidden 
Mabel, "and they'll look everywhere for me. iP 

"They'll never find you," said Gerald. 
"Talk of impenetrable disguises!" 

"I'm sure," said Mabel, "aunt would 
much rather never see me again than see me 
like this. She'd never get over it ; it might 
kill her — she has spasms as it is. Til write 
to her, and we'll put it in the big box at the 
gate as we go out. Has anyone got a bit of 
pencil and a scrap of paper?" 

Gerald had a note- book, with leaves of the 
shiny kind that you have t<> write on, not with 
a black lead pencil, bin with an ivory thing 
with a point of real lead. And it won't write 
on any other paper except the kind that is in 
the book, and this is often very annoying 
when you are in a hurry. Then was seen 
the strange spectacle of a little ivory stick, 
with a leaden point standing up at an odd, 
impossible-looking slant, and moving along 
all by itself fts ordinary pencils do when 

n/^p fe ^ F ™ |GAN 



u May we look over ? " asked Kathleen. 

There was no answer. The pencil went 
on writing. 

"Mayn't we look over?" Kathleen said 

41 Of course you may 1 M said the voice near 
the paper. " I nodded, didn't I ? Oh, I 
forgot, my nod ding's invisible too/ 

The pencil was forming round, clear letters 
on the page torn out of the copy-book. This 
is what it wrote: — 

" Dear Aunt, — I am afraid you will not 
see me again for some time, A lady in a 
motor-car has adopted me, and we are going 
straight to the coast and then in a ship. It 
is useless to try to follow me. Farewell, and 
may you be happy. I hope you are enjoying 
yourself, — -Mabel." 

Gerald folded up the note as a lady in 
India had taught him to do years before, and 
Mabel led them by another and very much 
nearer way out of the park. And the walk 
home was a great deal shorter, too, than the 
walk out had been. 

The sky had clouded over while they were 
in the Temple of Flora, and the first spots of 
rain fell as they got back to the house, very 
late indeed for tea. 

Mademoiselle was looking out of the 
window, and came herself to open the door. 

"But it is that you are in lateness, in 
lateness ! '" she cried. " You have had a 
misfortune— no ? All goes well?" 

" We are very sorry indeed/' said Gerald. 
" It took us longer to get home than we 
expected. I do hope you haven't been 
anxious* I have been thinking about you 
most of the way 

;Go, then,' 1 
said the French 
lady, smiling ; 
"you shall have 
them in the same 
time — the tea 
and the supper/' 

Which they 

There were 
only three plates, 
but Jimmy shared 
with Mabel It 
was rather horrid 
to see the bread 
and butter wav* 
ing about in the 
air, and bite after 
bite disappearing 
apparently by 

no human agency; and the spoon rising 
with apple in it and returning to the plate 
empty* Even the tip of the spoon disap- 
peared as lontr as it was in Mabels unseen 
mouth ; so that at times it looked as though 
its bowl had been broken off. 

Everyone was very hungry, and more 
bread and butter had to be fetched. Cook 
grumbled when the plate was filled for the 
third time. 

"I tell you what/' said Jimmy; " 1 did 
want my tea." 

"I tell you what," said Gerald; "it'll be 
jolly difficult to give Mabel any breakfast. 
Mademoiselle will be here then. She'd have 
a fit if she saw bits of forks with bacon on 
them vanishing, and then the forks coming 
back out of vanishment, and the bacon lost 
for ever." 

" We shall have to buy things to eat and 
feed our i>oor capture in secret," said 

11 Our money won't last long," said jimmy, 
in gloom. " Have you got any money ? " 

He turned to where a mug of milk was 
suspended in the air without visible means of 

11 I've not got much money/' was the reply 
from near the milk, "but got heaps of ideas." 

" We must talk about everything in the 
morning," said Kathleen, " We must just 
say good night to mademoiselle* and then you 
shall sleep in my bed, Mabel. I'll lend you 
one of my nightgowns." 

" I'll get my own to-morrow," said Mabel, 

" You'll go back?" 


'"" flrkvflQsnflBOUT IN THF A1W." 




" Why not ? Nobody can see me. I 
think I begin to see all sorts of amusing 
things coming along. It's not halt bad being 

It was extremely odd, Kathleen thought, 
to see the Princess's clothes coming out of 
nothing. First the gauzy veil appeared 
hanging in the air. Then the sparkling 
coronet suddenly showed on the top of the 
chest of drawers. Then a sleeve of the 
pinky gown showed, then another, and then 
the whole gown lay on the floor in a glisten- 
ing ring as the unseen legs of Mabel stepped 
out of it. For each article of clothing 
became visible as Mabel took it off. The 
nightgown, lifted from the bed, disappeared 
a bit at a time. 

"Get into bed," said Kathleen, rather 

The bed creaked and a hollow appeared in 
the pillow. Kathleen put out the gas and 
got into bed ; all this magic had been rather 
upsetting, and she was just the least bit 
frightened, but in the dark she tound it was 
not so bad. Mabel's arms went round her 
neck the moment she got into bed, and the 
two little girls kissed in the kind darkness, 
where the visible and the invisible could 
meet on equal terms. 

"Good night," said Mabel. " You're a 
darling, Cathy ; you've been most awfully 
>good to me, and I sha'n't forget it. I didn't 
like to say so before the boys, because I know 
boys think you're a muff if you're grateful. 
But I am. Good night.' 1 

Kathleen lay awake for some time. She 
was just getting sleepy when she remembered 
that the maid who would call them in the 
morning would see those wonderful Princess- 

" 111 have to get up and hide them," she 
said. " What a bother ! " 

And as she lay thinking what a bother it 
was she happened to fall asleep, and when 
she woke again it was bright morning, and 
Eliza was standing in front of the chair 
where Mabel's clothes lay, gazing at the pink 
Princess-frock that lay on the top of her heap 
and saying, " Law ! •" 

"Oh, don't touch, please" Kathleen leapt 
out of bed as Eliza was reaching out her 

"Where on earth did you get hold of 

" We're going to use it for acting," said 
Kathleen, on the desperate inspiration of the 
moment. " It's lent me for that." 

"You might show me, miss," suggested 

" Oh, please not," said Kathleen, standing 
in front of the chair in her nightgown. " You 
shall see us act when we're dressed up. 
There ! And you won't tell anyone, will 

44 Not if you're a good little girl," sAid Eliza. 
44 But you be sure to let me see when you do 
dress up. But where " 

Here a bell rang and Eliza had to go, for 
it was the postman, and she particularly 
wanted to see him. 

44 And now," said Kathleen, pulling on her 
first stocking, " we shall have to do the acting. 
Everything seems very difficult." 

44 Acting isn't," said Mabel ; and an unsup- 
ported stocking waved in the air and quickly 
vanished. 44 I shall love it." 

44 You forget," said Kathleen, gently, 
44 invisible actresses can't take part in plays 
unless they're magic ones." 

44 Oh," cried a voice from under a petticoat 
that hung in air, " I've got such an idea ! " 

44 Tell it us after breakfast," said Kathleen, 
as the water in the basin began to splash 
about and to drip from nowhere back into 
itself. "And oh, I do wish you hadn't 
written such whoppers to your aunt. I'm 
sure we oughtn't to tell lies for anything." 

44 What's the use of telling the truth if 
nobody believes you ? " came from among 
the splashes. 

44 1 don't know," said Kathleen, " but I'm 
sure we ought to tell the truth." 

44 You can, if you like," said a voice from 
the folds of a towel that waved lonely in front 
of the wash-hand stand. 

44 All right. We will, then, first thing after 
brek— your brek, I mean. You'll have to 
wait up here — till we can collar something 
and bring it up to you. Mind you dodge 
Eliza when she comes to make the bed." 

The invisible Mabel found this a fairly 
amusing game ; she further enlivened it by 
twitching out the corners of tucked up sheets 
and blankets when Eliza wasn't looking. 

44 Drat the clothes," said Eliza ; " anyone 
'ud think the things was bewitched." 

She looked about for the wonderful 
Princess-clothes she had glimpsed earlier in 
the morning. But Kathleen had hidden 
them in a perfectly safe place — under the 
mattress, which she knew Eliza never turned. 

Kathleen brought a chunk of bread raided 
by Gerald from the pantry window, and Mabel 
ate the bread and drank water from the 

44 I'm afraid it tastes of cherry tooth-paste 
rather," said Kathleen, apologetically. 

" It doesn't matter/ 1 a voice replied from 



the tilted mug; "it's more interesting than 
water. I should think red wine in ballads 
was rather like this." 

** We've got leave for the day cigain," said 
Kathleen, when the last bit of bread had 
vanished, ** and Gerald feels like I do about 
lies. So we're going to tell your aunt where 
you really are," 

" She won't believe you." 

" That doesn't matter, if we speak the 
truth," said Kathleen, primly, 

li I expect you 11 be sorry for it, fJ said 
Mabel; "but come on— and, I say, do be 
rareful not to shut me in the door as you go 
out. You nearly did just now," 

In the blazing sunlight that flooded the 
High Street four shadows to three children 
seemed dangerously noticeable. A butchers 
boy looked far too earnestly at the extra 
shadow, and his big, liver-coloured lurcher 
sniffed at the legs of that shadow's mistress 
and whined uncomfortably. 

11 Get behind me," said Kathleen; **then 
our two shadows will look like one/' 

But Mabel's shadow, very visible, fell on 
Kathleen J s back, and the ostler of the 
Davenant Arms looked up to see what big 
bird had cast that big shadow, 

A woman driving a cart with chickens and 
ducks in it called out : — 

11 Halloa, missy, ain't you 
blacked yer back neither ! What 
you been leaning up against ? n 

Everyone was glad when they 
got out of the town. 

Speaking the truth to 
Mabel's aunt did not turn 
out at all as anyone- 
even Mabel— expected. 
The aunt was discovered 
reading a pink novelette 
at the window of the 
housekeeper's room, 
which, framed in clematis 
and green creepers, 
looked out on a little 
court to which Mabel led 
the party. 

SN Excuse me," said Gerald, iS but 
I believe you've lost your niece? 

**Not lost, my boy/' said the 
aunt, who was spare and tall, with 
a drab fringe and a very genteel 

MVe could tell you something 
about her," said Gerald. 

"Now," replied the aunt, in a 
warning voice, "no complaints, 
please. My niece has gone, and 

I am sure no one thinks less than I do uf her 
little pranks. If she's played any tricks on 
you it's only her light-hearted way. Good- 
bye. Be good children," 

And on this they got away quickly. 

n Why," said Gerald, when they were out- 
side the little court, " your aunt's as mad a* 
a hatter," 

u Now your consciences are all right about 
my aunt, III tell you my idea, Let's get 
down to the Temple of Flora,'' said Mabel. 

The day was as bright as yesterday had 
been, and from the white marble temple the 
Italian-looking landscape looked more than 
ever like a steel engraving coloured by hand, 
or an oleograph imitation of one of Turners 

When the three children were comfortably 
settled on the steps that led up to the white 
statue, the voice of the fourth child said : 
M Tm not ungrateful, but I'm rather hungry. 
And you can't be always taking things for 
me through your larder window* But we're 
a band of brothers, for life, after the way 
you stood by me yesterday. What I 

'Origi rial from ■ 



suggest is— Gerald can go to the fair being 
held in the town and do conjuring." 

44 He doesn't know any," said Kathleen. 

44 / should do it really," said Mabel, "but 
Jerry could look like doing it. Move things 
without touching them and all that. But it 
wouldn't do for all three of you to go. The 
more there are of children the younger they 
look, I think, and the more people wonder 
what they're doing all alone." 

44 'The accomplished conjurer deemed these 
the words of wisdom/ " said Gerald : and 
answered the dismal " Well, but what about 
us ? " of his brother and sister by suggesting 
that they should mingle with the crowd. 
" But don't let on that you know me," he 
said ; ''and try to look as if you belonged to 
some of the grown-ups at the fair. If you 
don't, as likely as not you'll have the kind 
policemen taking the little lost children by 
the hand and leading them home to their 
stricken relations — French governess, I mean." 

" Let's go now" said the voice that they 
never could get quite used to hearing, coming 
out of different par i of the air as Mabel 
moved from one place to another. So they 

The fair was held on a waste bit of land, 
about half a mile from the castle. When 
they got near enough to hear the steam-organ 
of the merry-go-round, Jerry suggested that 
he shouIH go ahead and get something to eat. 
The others waited in the shadows of a deep- 
banked lane, and he came back, quite soon, 
though long after they had begun to say what 
a long time he had been gone. He brought 
some Barcelona nuts, red-streaked apples, 
small sweet yellow pears, pale pasty ginger- 
bread, a whole quarter of a pound of pepper- 
mint bullseyes, and two bottles of ginger-beer. 

" It's what they call an investment," he 
said, when Kathleen said something about 
extravagance. " We shall all need special 
nourishing to keep our strength up, especially 
the bold conjurer." 

They ate and drank. It was a very beautiful 
meal, and the far-off music of the steam-organ 
added the last touch of festivity to the scene. 
The boys were never tired of seeing Mabel 
eat, or rather of seeing the strange, magic- 
looking vanishment of food which was all 
that showed of Mabel's eating. They were 
entranced by the spectacle, and pressed on 
her more than her just share of the feast, 
just for the pleasure of seeing it disappear. 

" My aunt ! " said Gerald, again and again ; 
" that ought to knock 'em ! " 

It did. 

Jimmy and Kathleen had the start of the 

others, and when they got to the fair they 
mingled with the crowd, and were as un- 
observed as possible. 

They stood near a large lady who was 
watching the cocoanut shies, and presently 
saw a strange figure with its hands in its 
pockets strolling across the trampled yellowy 
grass among the bits of drifting paper and 
the sticks and straws that always litter the 
ground of an English fair. It was Gerald, 
but at first they hardly knew him. He had 
taken off his tie, and round his head, arranged 
like a turban, was the crimson scarf that 
had supported his white flannels. The tie, 
one supposed, had taken on the duties of the 
handkerchief. And his face and hands were 
a bright black, like very nicely- polished 
stoves * • 

Everyone turned to look at him. 

44 He's just like a nigger," whispered Jimmy. 
" I don't suppose it'll ever come off, do you ?" 

They followed him at a distance, and 
when he went up to the door of a small tent, 
against whose door-post a very melancholy- 
faced woman was lounging, they stopped and 
tried to look as though they belonged to a 
farmer who was trying to send up a number 
by banging with a big mallet on a wooden 

Gerald went up to the woman. 

" Taken much ? " he asked, and was told, 
but not harshly, to go away with his im- 

"I'm in business myself," said Gerald. 
" I'm a conjurer, from India.'' 

44 Not you," said the woman , "you ain't 
no nigger. Why, the backs of yer ears is 
all white." 

44 Are they ? " said Gerald. " How clever 
of you to see that ' " He rubbed them with 
his hands. 44 That better ? ' 

44 That's all right. What's your little 
game ? " 

44 Conjuring, really and truly,'' said Gerald. 
' 4 There's smaller boys than me put on to it 
in India. Look here, I owe you one for 
telling me about my ears. If you like to run 
the show for me I'll go shares Let me have 
your tent to perform in, and you do the patter 
at the door." 

44 Lor' love you, I can't do no patter. And 
you're getting at me. Let's see you do a bit 
of conjuring, since you're so clever an' all." 

44 Right you are,' said Gerald, firmly. 
44 You see this apple? Well, I'll make it 
move slowly through the air, and then when 
1 say 4 Go ! ' it'll vanish." 

44 Yes — into your mouth. Get away with 

y° ur WmfR5ltY OF MICHIGAN 



'" YuLT'ttlL CigTTJXC AT Sit. LHT % *Kfc Yl>lT LKJ A HIT OK 

"You're too clever to be so unbelieving," 
said Gerald* " Look here/ 1 

He held out one of the little apples : and 
the woman saw it move slowly and un- 
supported through the air* 

"Now — go ! " cried Gerald, to the apple, 
and it went "How's that?" he asked, in 
tunes of triumph. 

The woman was glowing with excitement, 
and her eyes shone. "The best I ever see/' 
she whispered " I'm on, mate, if you know 
any more tricks like that/' 

" Heaps/' said Gerald, confidently ; "hold 
out your hand." The woman held it out ; 
and from nowhere, as it seemed, the apple 
appeared and was laid on her hand* The 
apple was rather damp. 

She looked at it a moment, and then 
whispered ; "Come on- — there's to be no one 
in it but just us two. But not in the tent 
You take a pitch here, longside the tent* 
It's worth twice the money in the open air/ 1 

" But people won't pay if they can see it 
all for nothing. ■' 

"Not for the first turn, hut they will 

after— you see* And youll have 
to do the patter/* 

"Wai you lend 
me your shawl ? ** 
Gerald asked. She 
unpinned it — it 
was a red and 
black plaid — and 
he spread it on the 
ground as he had 
seen Indian con 
jurers do T and 
seated himself 
cross - legged be- 
hind it 

44 I mustn't have 

anyone behind me, 

that's all/' he said ; 

and the woman 

hastily screened off 

a little enclosure for him by 

hanging old sacks to two of 

he guy-ropes of the tent 

"Now Fm ready/' he said. 

The woman got a drum from the inside of 

the tent and beat it. Quite soon a little 

crowd had collected. 

14 Ladies and gentlemen/' said Gerald, M I 
come from India, and I can do a conjuring 
entertainment the like of which you've never 
seen. When I see two shillings on the shawl, 
I'll begin." 

"I dare say you will," said a bystander ; 
and there were several short disagreeable 

"Of course/' said Gerald, "if you can't 
afford two shillings between you" — there 
were about thirty people in the crowd by 
now—" I say no more." 

Two or three pennies fell on the shawl ; 
then a few more* Then the fall of copper 

" Ninepence," said Gerald. " Well, I'm 
of a generous nature, You'll get such a 
nine pennyworth as you've never had before, 
I don't wish to deceive you — I have an 
accomplice, but my accomplice is invisible." 
The crowd snorted. 

44 By the aid of that accomplice," Gerald 
went on, " I will read anv letter that any of 
you may have in your pocket — if one of you 
will just step over the ro[>e and stand beside 
me. My invisible accomplice will read that 
letter over his shoulder." 

A man stepped forward, a ruddy-faced, 
horsy - looking person- He pulled a letter 
from his pocket and stood plain in the sight 
of all, in a pint where no one could see 

^LWttftsritoF MICHIGAN 



"Now!" said Gerald. There was a 
moment s pause. Then from quite the other 
side of the enclosure came a faint, far-away, 
sing-song voice, It said : — 

"Sir,— Yours of the fifteenth duly lo 
hand. With regard to the mortgage on your 
land, we regret our inability 31 

11 Stow it ! * cried the man, turning 
threateningly on Gerald 

He stepped out of the enclosure explaining 
that there was nothing of that sort in his 
letter ; but nobody believed him, and a buzz 
of interested chatter began in the crowd, 
ceasing abruptly when Gerald began to 

"Now/' said he t laying the nine pennies 
down on the shawl, "you keep your eyes on 
those pennies, and one by one you'll see 
them disappear.' 8 

And of course they did. Then one by one 
they were laid down again by the invisible 
hand of Mabel. The crowd clapped loudly 
u Brayvo! " »■ That's something like/' 
"Show us another/ 1 cried the people in the 
front rank. And those behind pushed 

*'Now t ' said Gerald, " youVe seen what I 
can do, but I don't do any more 
till I see five shillings on this 
carpet. 1 ' 

And in two minutes seven and- 
threepence lay there, and Gerald 
did a little more conjuring. 

When the people in 
front didn't want to give 
any more Gerald asked 
them to stand back and 
let the others have a 
look in I wish I had 
time to tell you of 
all the tricks he did 
— the grass round 
his enclosure was 
absolutely tr a m p I eel 
off by the feet 
of the people 
who thronged 
to look at him. 
There is really 
hardly any limit 
to the wonders 
you can do if 
you have an 
invisible ac- 
complice. All 
sorts of things 
were made to move 
about, apparently by 
them selves j and even to 

Vol. x*xiti.— 30 

vanish — into the folds of Mabel's clothing. 
The woman stood by, looking more and more 
pleasant as she saw the money come tumbling 
in, and beating the shabby drum every time 
Gerald stopped conjuring, 

The news of the conjurer had spread all 
over the fair. The crowd was frantic with 
admiration, The man who ran the cocoa- 
nut shies begged Gerald to throw in his lot 
with him : the owner of the rifle gallery 
offered him free board and lodging and go 
shares ; and a brisk, broad lady, in stiff black 
silk and a violet bonnet, tried to engage him 
for the forthcoming Bazaar for Reformed 

And alt this time the others mingled with 
the crowd — quite unobserved, for who could 
have eyes for anyone but Gerald? And 
Gerald , who was getting very tired indeed, 
and was quite satisfied with his share of the 
money, was racking his brains for a way to 
get out of it 

11 How are we to hook it ? M he murmured, 
as Mabel made his cap disappear from his 
head by th: j simple process of taking it off 
and putting it in her pocket "TheyTl never 





let us get away. I didn't think of that 

" Let me think ! " whispered Mabel ; and 
next moment she said close to his ear : 
" Divide the money, and give her something 
for the shawl. Put the money on it and say 
. . . ." She told him what to say. 

Gerald's pitch was in the shade of the tent ; 
otherwise, of course, everyone could have 
seen the shadow of the invisible Mabel as 
she moved about making things vanish. 

Gerald told the woman to divide the money, 
which she did honestly enough. 

44 Now," he said, while the impatient crowd 
pressed closer and closer, " I'll give you five 
bob for your shawl." 

" Seven - and - six," said the woman, 

44 Righto," said Gerald, putting his heavy 
share of the money in his trouser pocket 

" This shawl will now disappear," he said, 
picking it up. He handed it to Mabel, who 
put it on ; and, of course, it disappeared. A 
roar of applause went up from the audience. 

11 Now," he said, " I come to the last trick 
of all. 1 shall take three steps backward and 
vanish." He took three steps backward, 
Mabel wrapped the invisible shawl round 
him, and — he did not vanish. The shawl, 
being invisible, did not conceal him in the 

" Yah ! ' cried a boy's voice in the crowd. 
4 Ix>ok at 'im. 'E knows 'e can't do it." 

44 I wish I could put you in my pocket," 
said Mabel. The crowd was pushing closer. 
At any moment they might touch Mabel, and 
then anything might happen — simply any- 
thing. Gerald took hold of his hair with 
both hands, as his way was when he was 
anxious or discouraged. Mabel, in invisi- 
bility, wrung her hands, as people are said to 
do in books ; that is, she clasped them and 
squeezed very tight. 

44 Oh ! " she whispered, suddenly, " it's 
loose. I can get it off." 

44 Not " 

44 Yes— the ring." 

44 Come on, young master. Give us 
sum mat for our money," a farm labourer 

" I will," said Gerald " This time I really 
will vanish. Slip round into the tent," he 
whispered to Mabel. u Push the ring under 
the canvas. Then slip out at the back and 
join the others. When I see you with 
them I'll disappear. Go slow, and I'll catch 
you up." 

44 It's me," said a pale and obvious Mabel 
in the ear of Kathleen. " He's got the ring : 
come on, before the crowd begins to scatter." 

As they went out of the gate they heard a 
roar of surprise and annoyance rise from the 
crowd, and knew that this time Gerald really 
had disappeared. 

They had gone a mile before they heard 
footsteps on the road, and looked back. No 
one was to be seen. 

Next moment Gerald's voice spoke out of 
clear, empty-looking space. 

44 Halloa ! " it said, gloomily. 

44 How horrid ! " cried Mabel ; " you did 
make me jump ! Take the ring off. It 
makes me feel quite creepy, you being 
nothing but a voice." 

"So did you us," said Jimmy. 

44 Don't take it off yet," said Kathleen, 
who was really rather thoughtful for her age, 
44 because you're still black, I suppose, and 
you might be recognised, and eloped with 
by gipsies, so that you should go on doing 
conjuring for ever and ever." 

44 1 should take it off," said Jimmy ; "it's 
no use going about invisible, and people 
seeing us with Mabel and saying we've 
eloped with her." 

44 Yes," said Mabel, impatiently, "that 
would be simply silly. And, besides, I want 
my ring." 

44 It's not yours any more than ours, any- 
how," said Jimmy. 

44 Yes, it is," said Mabel. 

44 Oh, stow it," said the weary voice of 
Gerald beside her. " What's the use of 
jawing ? " 

44 1 want the ring," said Mabel, rather 

44 Want " — the words came out of the still 
evening air — " want must be your master. 
You can't have the ring. I can't %ct it off I " 

(To be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 

From Other Magazines. 


THERE has been established in Paris a * l School 
of Duelling, 11 which is frequented only Ijy l he 
f&% one prominent member being ex-f'rcsidenL 
Casimir-Perter, This remarkable academy is con- 
ducted by Dr. de Villers, and combats frequently 
lake place there by way of practice. In these mimic 

duels wire masks arc worn to protect the face" and 
bullets made of wax are used, so that no injury may 
be sustained by the combatants. In all other 
respects, however, the conduct of the affair is carried 
through as on the "field of honour/' so that when 
the time comes— if it ever does come — for the scholars 
to take part in a serious duel they may acquit them- 
selves wilh credit to themselves and disaster lo their 
adversary— although this latter point is not of much 
importance. — l< on ns and ends," jn "thi wide 



IN Milan, at a s^ant? where I was present with 
Richet, each of us saw a branch of roses grow, as 
it were, and slowly come out of the sleeves of our 
coats, the flowers as fresh as if they had been cut at 
that very instant. — PROFESSOR ce^arf, t.omrroso, 


■*WUT. pi 

SHERIFF RUTHERFURD, who died in Edin 
burgh the other day, held for many years the 
post of Sheriff of Mid Lothian. He did not pore as 
what might he called a judicial humorist ; but when 
Sheriff Rutherfurd did unbend, the joke was a very 
good one indeed. On one occasion he had before 
him two horse -dealers, There had been a good deal 
of hard swearing in the case on each side, and it was 
averred by one of the dealers that the horse which he 
had bought could not lie down. Sheriff Rutherfurd 
heard all the evidence in the case, and then, looking 
over the Bench down to the parties, he remarked that 
it seemed to him that the only one connected with this 
case that could not lie was the horse.--'* tit-bits." 

avowal extraordinary: 

ON the occasion of Sir Charles VVynd ham's debut 
stage fright and lack of experience combined 
against hi in, and— well, he did not do so well then ?s 
now, The fact is that Sir Charles (then plain Mr.) 
played in a love scene, where he was supposed to 
utter dramatically the words : " Dearest , I am drunk 
with that enthusiasm of love which but once in a 
lifetime Jills the soul of man." But Sir Charles 
was new to it. He was nervous, and the great 
black pi i before him made him more so. He just 
managed to stammer out : *' Dearest, I am drunk !" 
'1 hen words failed him, and words likewise fail 
to describe the shriek of laughter that went up 
from the audience, and ihe feelings of ihe young 
actor. — from "woman's lU e, 


HOW far a diver can see under water de- 
pends upon circumstances. In the waters 
of the West Indies you can easily see for a 
distance of seventy- five feet. It is a wonderful 
sight there to watch the kelp weed swaying on 
the ocean bed, acres in extent, eight feet high, 
with blood -red leaves as big as a barrel all 
doited over with black spots s swaying gently in 
the water, and swarming all over with rock- 
crabs, lobsters* and all kinds of fish. — Harold 


IT is very important to know sizes and distances. 
Learn a few perfectly. Learn the inch, ihe foot, 
the yard. I earn to be able to step or jump to a given 
spot. Here is a simple exercise* Put a liitie piece 
of paper on the floor, about eighteen ir.ches from you. 
Notice where it is, 
Then shut your 
eyes and try to 
step upon it. Open 
your eyes, and correct 
any mistake. Next, 
shut your eyes and 
stoop down and try to 
pick up the piece of 
paper, Quite apart 
from any general 
training of the eye, 
the practice will help 
you to find things in 
the dark-— EUSTACE 
milks, t\ " c. H. 
fry's magazine." 

IMPORTANT NOTICE. -The attention of all readers of 'The 
Strand Magazine " is called to page 76 in the advertisements, where 
wil! be found full particulars of a novel and liberal scheme of Accident 
Insurance specially devised for their benefit. 

UH l VOti l T* Of M I CH I GAN 


Copyright, 1907, by George Newncs, Limiu-d. 
[ Wi ihali bt giad t$ ttuive C&ttrifotttem to this s&'iwn, and to pay /o} such as are attepttd*] 

u SPORT 1 p 1 

THIS photogtaph 
was taken in a 
pheasantry 111 I he 
South of Seal land, 
where the birds are 
reared and fed by 
band. The keeper 
in the picture, who 
was very much at- 
tached to his birds, 
had trained them lo 
fly on to his gun and 
Lo sit there while 
he raised it lo his 
shoulder. The Y 
would fly on to his 
shoulders, head* 
hands, and arms, and 
eal out of his hands. 
The question that 
naturally occurs lo 
one is : where can 
the sport be in shoot- 
ing turds that have 
been dom.sti crated to 
such an extent that 
they are as lame as 

barn-door fowls ? — Mr. Kenneth Fraser, University 
Union, Park Place, Edinburgh. 

Most of them are 
associated with 
quaint legends and 
superstitions. The 
photograph below 
shows one o( these 
stones which is 
situated in a small 
wood at St. Samson, 
near Dinan* !: will 
be seen lhai the 
huge stone is in a 
leaning position and 
has one flat face 
uppermost. On I he 
day oJ St- Samson, 
the patron saint 01 
ibe district, the un- 
married girls of the 
neighbor mood hie 
l hem to the Utile 
glade in 1 he wood and 
climb to the top of 
the stone. They 
then slide down to 
ihe ground, it being 
their superstitious 
belief that those who 
succeed in reaching the bottom without injury will 
be married within the twelve-month.— Mr. N.J. 
Lewis, 24, Kernlower Road, N. 


I SEND you a 
photograph of 
a curious accident ; 
the dish was 
left on the table, 
and in the night 
was knocked ofl 
by a cat. Instead 
of falling lo the 
ground and break- 
ing, it caught the 
handle of the pal 
and slid down, and 
remained in the 
position shown. 
The dish is not 
broken except for 
the hole shown,— 
Mr. K £ e r 1 o 11 
Allcock, Penbryn, 
Lilling ton Road, 


NO part of Kunipe is so thickly strewn with 
rough stone monuments, relics of a bygone 
age of Dnudkrn, as is Kriijarvy. They are to be 
met with all over the counm, gene rally in fields, 
though not infrequently close by the roadside. 




" VlltRE is in Switzerland 
A an orphan asylum whose 
revenue is o nsiderably aug- 
mented by the sale of used post- 
f^je-stamps, collected hy sympa- 
thizers tn all parts of Europe and 
in North America The clamps 
are forwarded to the asylum, where 
they accumulate until there are 
sometimes over thirty tons in 
stock* The manager of the insti- 
tution sells the stamps by the 
too to wholesale stamp dealers, 
and the photograph represents a 
small Jot of half a ton being 
mixed up on the premises of 
Me^rs. Whit field King and Co., 

of Ipswich. A pound weight 
of stamps with paper ad- 
herfig consists of between 
sixjand seven thousand, so 
thai the little heap shown in 
IM photograph contains over 
sepen million stamps, and, as 
lh|y are retailed at 2S- 4d« 
per pound, they represent a 
value of about a hundred 
and thirty pounds. — Mr. 
Charles Whitfield King, jun>, 
Morpeth House, Ipswich. 


ENCLOSED is a photo- 
graph showing a hop 
plant grown on the wire 
support of a telegraph pole. 
The height , which is about 
thirty ~ two feet, may be 
judged by the steps on the 
pole nearest the hop, which 
are three feet apart, The 
bottom step* marked by a X, 
is seven feet from the ground. 
The bine when taken down 
measured thirty- two feet six 
inches. The bine on the 


same root last year measured thirty- 
et*— Mr. J- Glley> 69, Langley 
Road, Catford, S.E. 


MILS sign-post stands on the 

main road from Boston to 

roin. The third arm points to 

village of Bunkers Hill, Many 

iple would think this post was in 

ierica T but a visit to Lincolnshire 

I soon show how the Pilgrim 

m took the names or iheir old 

jcs to a strange country, — Mr, 

Erered, 4A, Belsize Grove, 

Ifampstead, N. v\. 


ENCLOSE a photo- which I have just 

taken ol a child knocking at his door 

with his foou lie was quite unable to reach 

the knocker any other way unaided ; his brother 

and sister were waiting to 

go in with htm, I took it in 

this neighbourhood, and the 

boy must be very resourceful 

to have thought of knocking 

in this manner. He supports 

himself on the handle of the 

door, which is in the centre, 

and his foot arrives at the 

knocker by walking up the 

side of the brick doorway. 

He gets a good foothold on 

this and his head describes a 

semi-circle round the handle, 

igina.l from- Mr. James J. Robinson, 

NIVERSITYO" c ■^ |r:UB *'- | ^ ork Road * C: ™ iden 




THE rough on I line of the head of a 
horse here sho^n is mack up 
of I " i t man ^s sh o r l ha n d e I ; a rac l e rs . R e:i < 1 
inj4 from the nose upwards the transla- 
tion is : " Rarely will Archer's rage be 
spent on cobs after this event/* white 
the lower signs read: "This animal 
neither eals nor ri rinks." The quota- 

tion obviously, in *he first part, refers 
to the famous jockey, Fred Axcber, who 
died some years a^o. Before his decease 
I often had occasion, at the request of 
pupils, lu draw this and other designs 
as a little diversion after lessons. — M r. 
John \V, (jteatorex Beaumont, "28, 
Mentor Street, Shade Lane, Longsighi, 

Rarely will Archera raje be spent on cobs after this event 

animal neither 


nor drinks 



THE vegetable marrow shown here was grown by 
Ross Brothers Evesham, pricked with their 
father's address when quite small, and posted without 
further address. When full grown the letters appear 
to he carved deeply on the marrow^ as you see in the 
photograph* —Miss Elsie Ross, South Side, Wilmslow, 


I SEND you a photograph of freak carrots. On 
taking up our crop here I found some cur jogs- 
shaped roots, and set them up and photographed 
I hem as shown. They are exactly as grown, and 
l here is nothing whatever added to any of them, — 
Mr. Albert Nobbs, The Gardens, Beech Hurst,. 
Hay ward's Heath, Sussex. 

H^I IIS photograph 
J. was taken in a 
nursery in the North 
of London, It re- 
presents a LI Hum 
t larrisii, of which the 
bulb, having been 
planted ups 1 de 
down, grew down- 
wards in the soil t 
found its way 
ihrough the hole of 
the pot, and then 
grew upwards. Note 
the growing strength 
of the plant, power- 
ful enough to lift 
the pot j also the 
roots grown outside 
the pot at the 
bottom, where the 
stem was in contact 
with the damp 
ground underneath. 
— Mr. G. Verhoonen, 
Bush Hill Park, 




2 39 


I AM writing you a 
note and hope that 
it will reach you safely, 
seeing that the address 
on (he envelope is 
rather out of the ordi- 
nary. Xav will notice 
that 1 have placed I he 
stamps in such a way 
upon one another that 
ihe letters from post- 
masters' obliterating 
samps should form 
your address. In fact, 
the address is quite 
I "scamped addressed 
envelope," and is made 
op of the postmarks of 
English, Belgian, Ger- 
man, Indian, Egyptian, 
Brazilian, French, and 
Cape of Good I lope 
stamps, each lei 1 er be i ng 
part ofa different stamp. 
—Mr. If. Leach f 30, 
Xcmh Cross Road, Last 
DMA, S.E. 

lb^ jj.a£ 

has taken two prizes lately 
in Dublin cage-card shows, 
and so seems none the worse 
for its experiences. One ran 
only imagine that the bird 
swallowed the ferric morsel 
with its food. An X-ray 
photograph has li-ecn taken, 
but is not procurable. This 
reveals a still stranger view, 
for it appears that the head 
of the nail is on the other 
side of a bone which corre- 
sponds more or less to the 
human hip-bone. How the 
hird ever lived Un mi^ti n :i)l 
we are at a loss to conceive. 
— Mr. j. Andrews, 30, 
Lemsicr Road, K a [h mines, 


PHl^ photograph represettti the greenhouses here, 

1 taken the morning after a recent great hail 
storm, Some of the stones measured an inch and 
a Half squares-Miss B. Murray, Assembly Manor, 
Chriachurchj Hants. 


I SEND you a photograph of what is to my mind 
ft most remarkable occurrence. In order to 
dtszribe ii fully I shall have to go l*ack to January, 
! 9°& In this month the pigeon became very ill, arid 
seemed not to be able to obtain nourishment from its 
tad, and was apparently wasting away. It was not 
flmil June that it began to show any signs of recovery. 
Mr. Brady (its owner) was examining it one day, when 
fat Jell a prick in his finger as if some sharp object were 
excelled under the wing. 1 3 e then discovered a small 
rrerch wire nail protruding from under ihe flesh, point 
upwards, as shown in the photograph. !Tc then 
foKiced that die pigeon had almost lost the use of one 
i hut thai as the nail "grew" more the strength 

"■!■■*. tf««l j_ | »V'TT ..JTi-.V "I.LJ\. ,"»l J l_l 1UI ■ I 

*as t^hiuci^ an( j !nc pigeon has enjoyed perfect 
since. The bird has develop] normally, and 





TH E tree of which I send you 
a photograph h situated 
near Mallow, co. Cork. The 
objects hanging on it are pikes 7 
heads, from fish caught by an old 
man in I he neighbourhood. The 
lower branches of this tree are 
also covered with these} heads. — 
Miss C* M. Amphlete, Gilston, 
Colinsburgh, Fife, 


I SEND you a photograph 
which was printed so as to 
produce a has- relief effect, I 
tagan by making an "autotype" 
carl>on print on glass, making 
the positive less dense than the 
negative plate. I then put the 
two plates together and printed 
in the ordinary way, the light 
going through both positive and 
negative plates. — Mr. \V. JL 
Dobhie, White Ix>dge } Lidling- 
ton j near Amplhil 1 , Herls, 


SOME lime ago, whilst travelling in Scotland, I 
noticed on the side of the compartment and 
immediately under the hat-rack, in the space usually 
occupied lay notices of the railway company* this 
startling (though in many crises ouite true) inscription, 


I looked at it for a few r seconds, scarculv able to 
belkvc the evidence of my own eyes, as it was in 
bold priming. Then it gradually dawned upon me 
that some wag had altered the original inscription, 
which had read : 


The erasing of the various letters had been neatly 
done and, un!il closely examined, could not be 
detected* I will leave it to Thi; Strand readers lo 
find out those letters which had lieen erased and 
altered, although it is worth noting that the only let let 
which had heen wholly renewed had been VV in 

II railway," erased and substituted by D; also those 




L I 1 KJ 3 



3y Cj( 

-Original fro 

letters which had been 
erased formed the 
exact spaces bet ween 
the words of the new- 
sentence- — Mr* W. 
Barnes, 29, Prior 
Street t Lincoln* 


MR. J. CfcClL 
C A R D E N , 
the manager of the 
South African Rugby 
team, has sent us the 
envelope we here re pro- 
duce, which he has 
recei v r ed fr< >m S- n 1 1 h 
Africa. The add res: 
reads* S1 Mr. J. C. Car- 
j den, Manager,, -Spring- 

jftt£* by Team ' 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 




by Google 

Original from 

The Strand Magazine. 

Vol. xxxiii, 

MARCH, 1907. 

No. 195. 

Gems of the South Kensington Collection. 

T^Tir .. t ^.'§ * * s a matter of surprise to the 
picture -lover, sated with all 
the international art of the day, 
to note what dozens of little 
masterpieces there are hidden 
away in this gallery or that — 
none the less perfect or admirable because 
they are of native and not of foreign work- 

great painter turn this time for inspiration. 
Upon a simple Dutch interior, the bed- 
chamber of some worthy burgomaster's wife, 
was his eye bent, and with faithful, loving 
touches he depicts for us a scene whose 
interest can never grow old. The young 
mother lies upon her bed of down, within 
the four great iron posts, with ample tester 
overhead. By her side is a caller — an 

"THE visit.* 

In the galleries of the Victoria and Albert 
Museum, South Kensington, may be found 
achievements by some of the greatest masters, 
such as Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Madox Brown, 
Alma-Tadema, and Landseer. 

In the last year of the sixties, and a good 
twelvemonth before his decision to take up 
his residence in England, Sir Lawrence Alma- 
Tadema finished "The Visit," It is a picture 
executed with the most sedulous care. Not 
to Rome, not to the classic world, did the 

vol. wiii.~3i. bV VjO 


intimate friend — full of sympathy. At the 
window, looking out upon the Gothic spires 
of the quaint Flemish ^reet, is seen the tiny 
new-comer in its nurse's arms. In spite of 
the theme, all the characteristics of Alma- 
Tadema's canvases are here present Here 
he shows himself to he a true follower of the 
ancient Dutch school, and the influence of 
his master, the late Baron Leys, is strikingly 

Of ^iijftwWw Varden" here- 





By W. P. FRITH, R.A 

with reproduced, the painter, Mr. \\\ R 
Frith, remarks as follows : — 

u One of the greatest difficulties besetting 
me has always been the choice of subject. 
My inclination being strongly towards the 
illustration of modern life, I had read the 
works of Dickens in the hope of finding 
material for the exercise of any talent I 
might possess ; but at that time the ugliness 
of modern dress frightened me> and it was 
not till the publication of ' Barnaby Rudge/ 

and the delightful Dolly Varden was pre 
sented to us, that I felt my opportunity had 
come, with the cherry -coloured mantle and 
the hat and pink ribbons. 

**I found a capital model for Dolly, and I 
painted her in a variety of attitudes. First, 
where she is admiring a bracelet given her 
by Miss Haredale; then as she leans laughing 
against a tree ; then, again, in an interview with 
Miss Haredalc, where she is the bearer of a 
letter ^,.^^^^^^,0 when. 



on being accused of a penchant for Joe, she 
declares, indignantly, l she hoped she could 
do better than fkat y indeed ! ' 

"These pictures easily found purchasers, 
though for sums small enough. The laugh- 
ing Dolly, afterwards engraved, became very 
p>pular, replicas nf it being made for 
Dickens's friend, John Forster, and others. 

"It goes without saying that I had read 
all that Dickens had written, beginning with 
the ( Sketches by Boz J ; and I can well 
remember my disappointment when I found 
that the real name of the author way Dickers, 
I refused to believe that such a genius could 
have such a vulgar name ; and now what a 
halo surrounds it ! 

" I had never seen the man, who in my 
estimation was, and is, one of the greatest 
geniuses that ever lived ; my sensations there- 
fore may be imagined when I received the 
following letter : — 

[, Devonshire Terrace, 

York (rate, Regent's Park, 

November 15, 1S42, 
My Dear Sir, — I shall lie very glad if you will do me 
the favour to painl me two little companion pictures, 
one a Dolly Varden (whom you have 50 exquisitely 
done already), the other a Kate Nickkby, 
Faithfully yours always, 

' Charles Dickens, 

P.S, — I take it for granted that the original picture 
of Dolly with the bracelet is sold. 

" My mother and I cried over that letter, 
and the wonder is that anything is left of it, 
for I showed it to every friend I had, and it 
was admired and envied by all" 

It is sufficient to add that in spite of the 
artistes forebodings Dickens declared himself 
to be more than satisfied with the two 
pictures. He brought his mother and sister- 
in-law to see them, and this visit proved the 
commencement of a long and warm friend- 
ship between the great author and the then 
rising young painter. Dickens wrote out a 
cheque for forty pounds for the Dolly Varden 
and her companion picture ; but it is 
interesting to note that after his death they 
were sold at Chris tie's for no less than 
thirteen hundred guineas. 

One of Mr, Sheepshanks's most valued 
bequests to the South Kensington collection 
is Landseer's inimitable "Jac!: in Office/' 
Here we see a surly, overfed cur, with an air 
of vulgar importance^ seated upon a dog's- 
meat barrow which has been confided to his 
care. While thus enthroned he receives the 
courtier- like attentions of his hungry and 
less fortunate fellow-creatures. One meagre 
beast stands with watering mouth over a 








skewer of meat in the master's basket ; 
another, seated on his haunches, begs in 
forma pauperis ; with dropped paws and 
adulatory whine ; while yet a third appeals to 
the guardian's gallantry and devotion to her 
sex, But all without avail. He sits calmly 
contemptuous, scorning the meaner suppli- 
cants. In front a dark puppy nervously 

Digitized by\jOOQl 

gnaws a savoury skewer which has been 
tossed carelessly aside, while in the distance 
we may see a consequential and well-fed 
terrier surveying the &cene with profound 
disdain, The picture is brimful of humour — 
a humour, however, not un mingled with an 
element of pathos. 

Very different to Landseer in the character 





by Google 

Original from 





by Google 

Original from 



and conception of his work was Albert 
Moore, whose picture, " The Open Book,'' 
is reproduced. Few artists, perhaps, have 
been so severely criticised as Moore, and 
few have so triumphantly survived the 
ordeal. Of his rare qualities in technique 
and skill in colouring and composition there 
can be no doubt whatever. It has been said 
that his pictures were unsuggestive, that they 
were lacking in imagination and interest, 
and that, although they almost invariably de- 
picted Grecian scenes and flowing Grecian 
drapery, the figures were always entirely and 
essentially English. But these criticisms 
disturbed Moore not at all. "Anachronism/ 1 
he remarked, " is the soul of art." His ideal 
was tP paint beauty, and in this he certainly 
succeeded. In " The Open Book " we have 
a drawing of exceptional beauty and technical 
charm, of all his water-colours the one best 
suited for a national collection. The theme 
is obvious, self-explanatory. A girl clad in 
flowing draperies of the most delicate salmon- 
pink reclines upon a curiously-wrought and 
inlaid chest, while she ponders over the open 
book which lies before- her. The picture is 
purely decorative, but decorative in the 
highest and best sense of the word. It 
contains no hidden and elusive meaning to 
reward the search of the curious, no great 
and inspiring truth to sink deep into the 
soul ; but it is nevertheless a thing of the 
rarest beauty, and will ever be a source of 
the keenest delight to the jaded picture- 

That the new fashions in art and the latest 
combinations of colour are only a revival of 
fashions known long ago' is strikingly illus- 
trated by the picture, " Elijah and the 
Widow's Son," by Madox Brown. The fresh 
and vivid scarlet in juxtaposition to sombre 
pigments catches the eye as much as in any 
canvas of Mr. Abbey and his disciples. 

Although a strong sympathizer with the 
Pre-Raphaelite movement, Madox Brown 
was never asked to become a member of 
that little select band of artists which formed 
the actual Brotherhood. There were several 
reasons why the Pre-Raphaelites, although 
greatly admiring his genius, did not desire 
him as a fellow-member. In the first place, 
they considered him too old to be able 
entirely to sympathize with a movement that 
was almost boyish in tone. Then, again, his 
works had none of the minute rendering of 
natural objects that the Pre-Raphaelites had 
determined should distinguish their own 
pictures, and, although his paintings showed 
great dramatic power, they were nevertheless 


rather too grimly grotesque ever to render 
him a serviceable ally. 

The theme for this picture first occurred 
to the artist in 1864, in which year he 
executed two small studies of it — one in 
water-colours and the other in oils. It was 
not till 1868 that the picture was finally 
finished and exhibited, when it was sold for 
three hundred and fifteen pounds. The 
artist thus described his picture in the 
exhibition catalogue : — 

" We all remember how the widow in the 
extremity of her grief cried out, ' Art thou 
come unto me to call my sin to remembrance, 
and to slay my son ? ' So we can all imagine 
the half (or half-assumed) reproachful look 
with which Elijah, as he brought the child 
downstairs, would have said, ' See, thy son 
liveth,' and even the faint twinkle of humour 
in the eyes with which he would receive the 
reply, c Now by this I know that thou art 
a man of God.' The child is represented 
as in his grave-clothes, which have a far-off 
resemblance to Egyptian funeral trappings, 
having been laid out with flowers in the 
palms of his hands, as is done by women in 
such cases. Without this the subject (the 
coming to life) could not be expressed by 
the painter's art, and till this view of the 
subject presented itself to me I could not 
see my way to make a picture of it. The 
shadow on the wall, projected by a bird 
out of the picture returning to its nest (con- 
sisting of the bottle which in some countries 
is inserted in walls to secure the presence of 
the swallow of good omen), typifies the return 
of the soul to the body. The Hebrew 
writing over the door consists of verses of 
Deut. vi. 4-9, which the Jews were ordered 
so to use (possibly suggested to Moses by 
the Egyptian custom). Probably the dwelling 
in tents gave rise to the habit of writing the 
words instead on parchment placed in a case. 

" As is habitual with very poor people, the 
widow is supposed to have resumed her 
household duties, little expecting the result 
of the prophet's vigil with her dead child. 
She has, therefore, been kneading a cake for 
his dinner. The costume is such as can be 
devised from study of Egyptian combined 
with Assyrian and other nearly contemporary 
remains. The effect is vertical sunlight such 
as exists in Southern latitudes." 

For the "Day -Dreams" D. G. Rossetti 
made two preliminary crayon studies, but it 
was not completed in oils till the autumn of 
1880. It was one of the artist's greatest 
favourites amongst his own pictures. It 
represents a beautiful woman rapt in some 

j 1 1 1 .* 1 1 1 




41 daydream spirit-fann'd/' while she sits in 
the summer silence under "the thronged 
boughs of the shadowy sycamore." 

Under the ample shade of the spreading 
brown branches she rests, lost in dreamy 
meditation, while from the green depth of 
the sycamore a thrush pours out its soul in a 
very ecstasy of song* The book she has 
been reading lies listlessly on her lap, and 
the fragrant blossom she has plucked falls 
unnoticed from her hand. . The whole 
painting is imbued with the spirit of dreamful 
reverie and vague meditation. 

Seated one evening before the picture ere 
it had received the finishing touches of a 
master hand, Rossetti addressed to it the 
following sonnet : — 

The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore 

Still bear young leaflets half the summer through ; 

From where the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue 
Perched dark* till now, deep in the leafy core, 
The embowered throstles urgent wood -notes soar 

Through summer silence. Still the leaves come 
new ; 

Yet never rosy-sheathed as those which drew 
Their spiral tongues from spring- buds heretofore. 

Within the branching shade of Reverie 

Dreams even may spring till autumn ; yet none be 

Like woman's budding day-dream spirit -fann'd. 
Lo I towVd deep skies, not deeper than her look, 
She dreams \ till now on her forgotten book 

Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand. 

Few indeed are the painters of any age who 
cotild not only paint such a picture but pen 
such a poem. 

It is doubtful whether amongst the innu- 
merable illustrators of Dickens there was one 
who combined such perfect technique with 
so keen an appreciation of character as the 
late Charles Green, This admirable water- 
colour painter had not only a keen eye for 
character, but a humour strangely akin to the 
humour of Dickens himself, yet wholly devoid 
of any strain of caricature. His pictures are 
simple, clean, and wholesome. As one of 
his friends said at his death : " Green never 
painted anything that was not pleasant to 
look upon," His work was fresh and vivid> 
and although severe critics would and did call 

it " pretty/' yet the epithet is applied daily 
to even greater men than Charles Green. 
The British public has grown accustomed to 
this aspersion upon its favourite painters. In 
the example given in our frontispiece we 
see a luckless shopkeeper puzzling over his 
accounts. His clever little daughter with a 
"head for figures n has come to his assist- 
ance, but in vain. The figures will not come 
right There is " Something wrong some- 
where/ 1 What are they to do ? The situation 
is one which appeals to man, woman, and child 
who have ever been in a similar predicament 

By far the greater part of the South Ken- 
sington collection is due to the munificence 
of a couple of deceased picture - lovers, 
Mr, Constantine Alexander Ion ides and Mr. 
Thomas Sheepshanks. Of Mr, Sheepshanks 
we are told that he was a sleeping partner 
in a cloth firm at Leeds, a bachelor who, 
although he never possessed an income of 
more than ^r,5oo a year, accumulated his 
large collection of pictures by contemporary 
British painters out of that income, Some 
of the most wonderful of Landseer's works 
were acquired by Sheepshanks for sums 
which Mr, Frith regarded as extremely small. 
One of the largest, **The Departure of the 
Highland Drovers," was originally painted 
for the Duke or Bedford. The Duke 1 how- 
ever, pleaded poverty as an excuse for not 
carrying out the contract, and said that if 
Landseer could find another purchaser he 
would be glad to resign " so beautiful a work." 

The exquisite " Jack in Office," u The 
Shepherd's Chief Mourner," "The Tethered 
Ram," etc*, were all bought for ludicrously 
small prices ; and any exclamation from a 
bystander to that effect was sure to elicit 
from Mr, Sheepshanks a somewhat petulant 
explanation : " Well, I always give what is 
asked for a picture, or I don't buy it at all — 
never beat a man down in my life* Never 
sold a picture, and I never will ; and if what 
I hear of the prices that you gentlemen are 
getting now is true, I can't pay them, so my 
picture- buying days are over," 

by Google 

Original from 

The Scarlet Runner. 

By C N. and A. M. Williamson, 

Auikors of M The Lightning C&ndurt&r" " Mp Friend the Chauffeur? eH. 
Copyright, 1907 p by C, N, and A. M. Williamson. 

at the invitation, and stared 
again. If it had come to him 
in his palmy days, he might 
not have been thus blankly 
amazed ; but at best who was 

Christopher Race that he should be hidden 
to a reception at the Foreign Office, to 
meet Royalty? 

Of course, Christopher said to himself, he 
would not go* Before the day of the recep- 
tion he would be away in the country with 
Scarlet Runner, trailing a fat and vulgar 
Australian millionaire, with his fat and vulgar 
millionairess, about rural England, He had 
not accepted the millionaire's offer yet ; but 
it meant ten pounds a day for a fortnight — 
perhaps longer, and Scarlet Runner had 
been eating her bonnet off in an expensive 
garage for nearly three weeks. 

There were several humbler, envelopes 
under the one which had naturally found a 
place on the top ; but they were blue or 
grey, and, taking it for granted that they 
were bills, Christopher was in no hurry to 
open them. Had he not chanced to knock 
down the little pile with his elbow, in 
reaching for the coffee-pot, he 
would have accepted the mil- 
lionaire's terms and declined 
with thanks the Foreign Office 
invitation. But he 
did knock the pile 
down, and the 
bottom envelope 
had no rese m bl ance 
to the rest. 

It also was blue, 
but of a delicate 
and attractive 
azure. It was ad- 
dressed to him in a 
writing unfamiliar, 
yet perhaps the 
more provocative 
for that ; and, un- 
less it were delibe- 
rately calculated 
to mislead, it sug- 

gested the individuality of a woman at once 
original and charming. Christopher broke 
the violet seal with anticipation, which for 
once fell short of realization, for the letter, 
which covered no more than a page, was 
signed " Eloise Dauvray." 

That name had rung in his ears, mysterious 
and sweet as the music of bolls floating over 
the sea from a city of mirage, since the 
masked ball, where he had been lucky enough 
to serve the fair Southerner's purpose, But 
he had not heard from her in the six weeks 
that followed, nor had he expected to hear. 

Now his heart gave a leap as he read the 
summons which called htm back into her life. 

Her letter had no conventional beginning. 
"Since I have been a grown woman/ 1 she 
said, "I have known only two Real Men, 
and you are one of those two, I want you to 
meet the other. Something great may come 
of the meeting, and this time you would be 
with me in an adventure of which neither of 
us need be ashamed. As for me, I am in it 
deeply, heart and soul. If you will throw 
in your fortune with mine, come to-morrow 
night to the Foreign Office reception, for 
which I will see that you have an invitation. 

Yours— gratefully 
^ j v for the past, hope- 

I |f JhKh&-- fully for the 

U P^. future - Eloise 



by GOOgle 





No question now as to whether he would 
go or not go ! He wanted to see Eloise 
Dauvray ; he wanted to know why and how 
she needed him j he wanted to be in that 
adventure, whatever it might prove, because 
she would be in it ; and though it was a 
drawback that he was not the only Real Man 
on her horizon, he wanted to find out what 
the other one was like. 

He wrote to the millionaire, regretting 
that he was previously engaged, And on the 
night of the reception he dressed himself as 
one of the two Real Men in the world ought 
to be dressed for an occasion of importance. 

Lest she should be needed he drove 
Scarlet Runner to Whitehall, and left her in 
charge of a hired chauffeur whom he could 

Christopher stepped out of his car into a 
blaze of light and colour ; and indoors the 
luscious perfume of flowers, mingled with the 
thought that he was about to see Eloise 
Dauvray, went to his head like some rich 
Spanish wine, He dreaded, yet longed, to 
join the tide of men and women passing up 
the wide staircase between the double line of 
Guards, glorious 
in scarlet tunics 
and silver helmets. 
Beyond that stair- 
case — - somewhere 
— Miss Daurray 
and he would 

He was greeted 
by the Foreign 
Secretary and his 
wife t and instantly 
forgotten as the 
murmur went 
round that Royalty 
was arriving, 
Christopher knew 
by sight many of 
the celebrities, but 
found no friends. 
In his social days 
he had been in a 
very good set, but 
it was not this set ; 
and now he paused 
forlornly, looking 
for Eloise Dauvray, 
his eyes half 
dazzled by the 
blaze of women's 
diamonds and 
men's jewelled 

" Mr + Race," murmured a voice that no 
man who had heard it once could forget ; 
and, turning, he was face to face with Eloise 
1 )auvray — an astonishingly changed Eloise 

She had been beautiful before, but she was 
doubly beautiful now, with the radiant, morn- 
ing beauty of a girl of eighteen. The eyes, 
once clouded with mystery or tragedy, had 
been turned into stars by some new happi- 
ness ; and for a giddy second Christopher 
asked himself if it could be his presence 

that ■ 

But the thought broke before it finished ; 
for he saw the Other Man, and, seeing him, 
knew the secret of the change in Eloise 
Dauvray. The glory of love irradiated her, 
and it seemed to Christopher that she was 
not ashamed to let him see it* 

Of some men Christopher might have been 
jealous ; for, though he was not in love with 
tin.- beautiful American, she called out all the 
romance and chivalry in his nature, and she 
had a special niche of her own in his heart, a 
niche of gold and purple. But this man was 
no common man, and suddenly it was as if 

Christopher saw 
his tall figure 
framed in such 
another niche, 
glowing with 
strange jewels, 
unique and splen- 
did. If there had 
been jealousy in 
Christopher's soul 
it must have been 
burnt up like chaff 
in the brave fire 
of the Other Man's 
eyes, as they wel- 
comed him, 

l( Mr. Race," 
said Eloise Dau- 
vray again, "I 
wanted you to 
come and meet 
Prince Mirko of 
Dal van ia. I have 
told him about 

Christopher was 
not surprised to 
learn that this 
noble young giant, 
in the wonderful 
Eastern uniform 
scintillating with 
orders and 


Original from 

by Google 




decorations, was called Prince. It would 
have been more surprising to hear that he 
was other than a prince. He must have 
been at least six feet three in height, slender, 
yet broad-shouldered, and singularly graceful 
in bearing for so tall a man. His face, no 
darker than that of an Italian, had features 
that were purely Greek ; and the great eyes, 
soft yet brilliant, had the starry darkness of 
Southern skies. 

" I am here with my grandmother," said 
Miss Dauvray. " You have not met her, but 
she is an old friend of the Foreign Secretary's 
wife. Prince Mirko and you and I must 
talk together." 

They found a quiet corner, out of the way 
of the crowd. " Now I am going to tell you 
a secret," the girl went on. " You see how 
I trust you — how we both trust you ? For 
it's a secret that, if known, might spoil a plan 
whose success means everything to the 
Prince — everything, therefore, to me." 

" I hope to be worthy of your trust and 
the Prince's trust," answered Christopher, 

" He has asked me to marry him. That 
is part of the secret," said Eloise. " For his 
sake I ought to have refused. But I love 
him. My love has made me selfish." 

" You would have spoiled my life and 
killed my ambition if you had refused," 
Prince Mirko of Dalvania broke in, hotly. 
" From the moment we met the world held 
nothing for me that compared with you." 

He spoke in perfect English, though with 
an accent something like that of an Italian 
when venturing out upon the sea of a foreign 
language. They looked at each other, and 
forgot Christopher for an instant, but only for 
an instant. 

" Congratulate me, Mr. Race," said the 
Prince. " Good fortune had a quarrel with 
me until two weeks ago ; then I met Miss 

" Congratulate me ! " exclaimed Eloise. 
" You saw what I was before. You see what 
I am now." 

This was a delicate topic ; and perhaps 
Christophers face showed that he found it 
difficult, for the girl spoke before he could 
choose his answer. "The Prince knows" 
she said. " I told him everything. It was 
hard, and I was tempted to keep my own 
counsel. Perhaps conscience alone would 
not have decided me, but — it was better he 
should hear all there was to hear — the very 
worst — from me than from — someone else," 

"Don't speak like that," the Prince im- 
plored her, tenderly. "What was there to 

Digitized by G* 

hear, after all? Only that a man whom I 
shall kill one day when I have the time 
terrorized you cruelly." 

So quietly and with such sang-froid did 
he announce his intention that, despite 
the emotion they were both feeling, Eloise 
Dauvray and Christopher Race smiled. 

" But I will," repeated the Prince, like a 
boy. "Just now, you know very well, 
Eloise, I have not the time, because I am 
given to other things first ; then, when I 
am my own again, I shall do what I say." 

" You will not be your own ; you will be 
mine, and your country's," answered Eloise. 
" And that brings us to what we have to tell 
and ask Mr. Race." 

"Whatever you ask I will do," said 
Christopher, rashly. He was in the mood to 
be rash ; not only for Miss Dauvra/s sake, 
but now for the sake of the Prince as well. 
There was something of that extraordinary 
magnetism about the young man which the 
House of Stuart had, and made use of in 
enlisting followers. 

" You had better wait and hear first," 
Mirko warned him. But at this moment 
arrived an anxious-looking gentleman, whose 
face cleared at sight of the group of 
three. Bowing courteously to Miss Dauvray, 
at whom he glanced quickly with veiled 
curiosity, he announced in indifferent French 
that he had been searching everywhere 
for His Royal Highness, in the hope of 
introducing him — by special request — to a 
very great personage. 

Such a request was a command, and Eloise 
smiled permission to go. 

" That is the Dalvanian Ambassador," she 
murmured, as the tall, youthful figure and the 
short, middle-aged one moved away together. 

" He looks clever," said Christopher. 

"He is clever," replied Eloise, " and — we 
believe — he is on our side. Not for me — I 
don't mean that. I hope and pray he knows 
nothing, and may guess nothing until too 
late to interfere. I mean something of more 
importance to Dalvania than a love affair. 
Perhaps, after all, it's just as well that I can 
tell you what I have to tell you alone. First, 
I thank you for coming, and — isn't he 
glorious ? " 

"Yes," said Christopher.- "If I were a 
soldier I should like to fight for him." 

" How strange you should say that ! " half 

whispered the girl. " It is exactly what I 

want you to do. Will you be a * soldier of 

fortune ' and fight for us both ? But, no ; 

it isn't fair to ask you that until you know 

the whole story." 

Original from 




So she told him the story, briefly as she 
could, keeping down her own excitement, 
which would grow with the tale. Christopher 
knew little or nothing of Dalvanian affairs, 
except that the people of that turbulent 
country had risen some years ago against 
their king and killed him ; that the queen 
and her children had been saved only by 
flight ; that a distant relative of the dead 
man — a person favoured by Turkey — had 
been raised to the throne; and that the 
Dalvanians, who ought to have been elated 
at their success, had been more or less dis- 
satisfied ever since. 

Now Eloise Dauvray told him that the 
story of the flight and the massacre was 
twelve years old. The queen had lived 
in great seclusion, incognita, sometimes in 
France and England, sometimes in Austria 
and Hungary. Now she was dead — had 
been dead for two years. Her last words to 
her two sons — Mirko, twenty-six, and Peter, 
twenty-one — had been : " Win back Dalvania. 
Mirko must be king. Do not try to avenge 
your father's murder on the people. Most 
of them were innocent. It was a plot of 
Turkey's. But take the throne away from 
the alien." 

This chimed with Mirko's heart's desire. 
But there was no money ; and Dalvania — 
even if willing to accept him — was weak, 
while Turkey was near and powerful. Still, 
he was the rightful heir ; and Dalvania was 
very tired of King Alexander, spendthrift and 

Mirko as a boy had made one or two 
highly-placed friends in England; and though, 
while Alexander remained king, Great 
Britain could not officially countenance 
Mirko's claims, were he successful in regain- 
ing his father's throne England would be 
ready to congratulate him. 

Now, Prince Mirko's errand in the most 
important island of the world was to enlist 
sympathy for his cause among those who 
would lend him their money or their help in 
organizing a secret raid ; and the adventure, 
so Eloise Dauvray eagerly explained to 
Christopher Race, was not so hopeless as it 
might seem. 

The Dalvanian Ambassador, who had just 
called the Prince away, had been put in his 
place by Turkey, like all other Dalvanian 
diplomats of King Alexander's day ; never- 
theless, he had private reasons for being at 
heart Mirko's friend. Daniello Rudovics 
knew what was Mirko's mission in England ; 
knew that he was trying to get together a 
hundred thousand pounds to buy arms and 

by K: 



feed a small army ; knew that he was inviting 
adventurous or rich young Englishmen to 
join him secretly at the Montenegrin frontier 
of Dalvania, for a certain purpose ; yet 
Rudovics was giving no hint to Turkey, his 
real employer, of the business afoot. " And 
that is not because of any personal love 
for the Prince," finished the woman who 
loved the Prince above all, "but because 
he wants Mirko to marry his wife's daughter. 
If Mirko would take her, Turkey would let 
him gain his throne with no more than a 
mere theatrical struggle." 

"That sounds as if thereby hung a tale," 
said Christopher, deeply interested now in 
the Other Man's fortunes. 

"Thereby hangs a strange tale," echoed 
Miss Dauvray — " a tale of love. Once upon 
a time a Sultan loved a fair lady w T ho was not 
his Sultana, yet she was of high rank and 
had important relatives who must not be 
offended. So the Sultan heaped upon her 
all the honours he could, and married her off 
to a colonel in his army, who died rather 
suddenly soon after the wedding day. 
Perhaps by that time the great man had 
tired of her beauty ; at all events, when she 
had been long enough a widow, with a pretty 
little girl, he smiled upon a match between 
the lady and the new Dalvanian Ambassador 
to the Court of St James. Now the girl is 
grown up — that is, she's sixteen or seventeen : 
and you can see that, if Mirko of Dalvania 
would please to fall in love with and marry 
her, there would be persons who would be 
pleased to see her a queen." 

"I see," said Christopher. "The plot 

"It grows very thick indeed," answered 
Eloise, "for Mirko won't think of the Lady 
Valda — will think of no one but me. Yci he 
must keep Rudovics's friendship for the 
present. That's why our engagement has 
to be secret ; and our marriage must be 
secret, too. Only my grandmother knows — 
and you. At least, that's what I hope. I 
daren't dwell upon the things that might 
happen to Mirko if anyone who wished 
either of us evil should find out." 

" Yes," said Christopher. " I understand, 
and I'd give anything — even Scarlet Runner 
—to help." 

" We want you both — you and Scarlet 
Runner. Will you be one of those young 
men who will happen, in a few weeks, to be 
taking a trip that may end by bringing you to 
Dalvania ? It's a very interesting country — 
everyone who has seen it says so— and, 
though wild, some good roads have been made 
■_■ m l] 1 1 1 ".1 1 iro m 





lately — a bid for popularity by the usurper 
Alexander, No motor-cars have been seen 
there yet. If one should go, especially if it 
were a handsome, large, red one, it would 
cause great excitement among the simple- 
minded peasantry. It would be considered 
almost supernatural" 

" What if it carried a prince — the rightful 
ruler of his country?" smiled Christopher, 

"Some such thought was in my mind," 
said Eloise, " It would create a profound 
sensation. People would think him a god 
in the car." 

" There ought also to be a goddess in the 
car/* remarked Christopher, thoughtfully. 

" She need not be lacking— if she had an 
invitation," answered Miss Dauvray, 

" She has the invitation now," 

" Thank you ! And you have — an invita- 
tion to her wedding/' 

" When is it to be ? " he asked, with out- 
ward calmness. 

"That is the greatest secret of all, It is 
to be next week. I will let you know the 
day, and should like you to be there. So 
would Mirko. He knows what you did for 
me. Already you are to him more than 
other men, for my sake. And if you would 
help him — if you would take us into 
Dal van i a " 

'-Not only will I do that; but I think, if 
the Prince still needs it, I can get him 

Digitized by GoOSle 

" He needs it despe- 
rately. But you — are not 
rich ? " 

M My uncle is," 

" I heard something of 
your story from — but you 
can guess. I hate even to 
speak his name, in these 
good and happy days. 
Your uncle has disin- 
herited you." 

" That's still on the 
knees of the gods. I'm 
not sure he hasn't a sneak- 
ing fondness for me. But 
there's one thing he wor- 
ships: a title. Once he 
gave fifty thousand turkeys 
and Heaven knows how 
many loaves of bread to 
the poor, for which he 
expected a knighthood, 
and got — thanks." 

Eloise Dauvray's colour 


" Prince Mirko would 
give him a dukedom and the Order of the 
Red Swan of Dalvania. Though it's a 
small country, the Swan is famous— as old as 
Constantine the First, and has been bestowed 
on few who were not kings or princes. You 
may have noticed that Mirko is wearing it 

** I did notice, and thought— of my uncle. 
He would give ten years of his life for the 
Swan , and a hundred thousand pounds for 
a dukedom, even though Dalvanian — or I 
don't know him. You and Prince Mirko 
could induce him to do it, if you would let 
me take you both in Scarlet Runner to Hyde 
Hampton, his place in Middlesex, to pay an 
afternoon visit." 

"We will go; I can promise for Mirko," 
said Eloise. " I must have my grand- 
mother with me, for even Mirko wouldn't 
approve of his fiancee going unchaperoned, 
When he comes back to find me here, 
I'll tell him what you say, and he'll be 
very glad to know, too, that he can count 
upon your aid in our great adventure. Three 
hundred other young men have pledged 
themselves already; but there's no one like 
you, and there's only one Scarlet Runner. 
As for our marriage, the day will be fixed 
to-morrow, for one of the two men who is to 
marry us — a Dalvanian priest of the Greek 
Ghurch ? who was Mirko's first tutor — is 
coming on purpose, and everything will be 

arranged^ . 

Urigmal from 




If Christopher had the idea that his 
acquaintance with a Royal prince would 
enhance his value in the eyes of his uncle, 
the thought had not influenced his sugges- 
tion. He spoke only in the interest of Mirko 
and Eloise, and indeed unselfishly ; for a 
hundred thousand pounds would be a slice 
out of his inheritance in case his uncle 
relented towards him at the year's end. 

He had not seen his relative for many 
months, nor had he communicated with him 
since he had taken to earning his own living 
with Scarlet Runner. Nevertheless, his long 
and elaborate wire the next day was promptly 
answered by old James Revelstone Race with 
a cordial invitation for any day that suited 
His Royal Highness. 

The expedition was to be a secret, of 
course, like everything else which brought 
Prince Mirko of Dalvania and Eloise Dauvray 
of New Orleans together. Mirko was staying 
at a house which had been lent him by 
a young English earl, and Christopher 
called for him there with Scarlet Runner. 
But the Prince was well disguised with the 
least romantic of motor goggles and a cap 
with long flaps ; and instead of picking up 
Mme. Dauvray and her granddaughter in 
Regent's Park, the car was driven by appoint- 
ment to the house of a trusted friend in 
Richmond. There the two ladies got in, 
and Mirko, who was too ardent a lover to 
regard conventionalities when they might be 
disregarded, deserted the front seat to be with 
the adored one in the tonneau. 

" But you would not let me see you yester- 
day," Christopher heard him complain, in 
answer, perhaps, to some laughing objection. 
" Why would you not let me? I had a thousand 
things to say to you. It's a day wasted in 
my life. Nothing can make up for it. And 
you had promised me. It was a great 

"And to me," said Eloise. "But— I 
couldn't help it. You must know I couldn't 
help it, or nothing would have made me 
write and put you off." 

Whether or no Prince Mirko knew the 
inflections of Eloise Dauvray's voice as the 
amateur chauffeur fancied he knew them 
Christopher could not tell, but there was a 
hint of the old weariness in her tone which 
made him say to himself instantly: "Some- 
thing has happened. She has had a blow or 
a shock." 

During the run of an hour and a half 
to Hyde Hampton (the old place which 
Christopher still hoped might at some distant 
day be his) the girl was very silent. Mirko 

remarked it at last, asking anxiously if she 
were not well, but she answered with an 
effort at calling back her spirits that it was 
nothing ; she hadn't slept very well last night, 
and had one of her bad headaches. Grand- 
mamma knew how horrid they were, but 
soon the fresh air and quick motion would 
drive the pain away. 

In spite of the headache she was very 
beautiful when she removed her thick motor- 
ing-veil at Hyde Hampton and replied to 
old Mr. Race's greetings. Yet it was a sub- 
dued beauty, pale as moonlight, though her 
lips were feverishly red and her eyes large 
and burning. Perhaps this was the effect of 
the headache ; but Christopher Race did not 
think so ; and his eyes returned again and 
again to her face, questioningly, during the 
visit, which— save for her suffering — was 
proving splendidly successful. Once or twice 
it seemed to him that she avoided his eyes ; 
and he said to himself that, whatever might be 
the cause of the change in her, Miss Dauvray 
did not mean to confide in him. 

Old James Race was enchanted with the 
Prince, almost collapsing with joy at Royalty's 
gracious praise of his picturesque Jacobean 
house and wonderful Dutch gardens. Such 
an honour had never come his way before ; 
but, snob as the old man was at heart, he 
genuinely admired Mirko, and was fired by 
the romance of the young Prince's situation. 
The confidence that Mirko reposed in him 
he regarded as an overwhelming compliment, 
and hinted a suggestion of help even before 
the quickly following offer of the dukedom. 
That could not be bestowed until Prince 
Mirko should become King Mirko ; but the 
Red Swan of Dalvania, on fire with the blaze 
of rubies and small brilliants, was transferred 
from Mirko's breast to that of the dazzled old 

On the way back to London, after this 
triumphant visit, Eloise told Christopher that 
the wedding would take place on the follow- 
ing Saturday. Her grandmother being a 
Roman Catholic, they had a small private 
chapel in their house in Regent's Park. In 
this they would be married by a Catholic 
priest and the Greek priest, the first to 
satisfy Mrs. Dauvray ; and afterwards, before 
Mirko should ascend the throne of his 
fathers, Eloise had the intention of becoming 
a convert to the Greek Church. The banns 
of Theodore (one of Mirko's many names) 
Constantinus and Eloise Dauvray had been 
read three times in a quiet little church 
of South Kensington — a church where nobody 
would recognise either name ; and all was now 

by K: 



u\ I I '.' I I I 




ready. Nor need there be further delay in 
starting for Dalvania, since old Mr, Race's 
thousands — added to those already sub* 
scribed— would put the Prince in funds. 

Save the two priests and the registrar, 
Mme. Dauvray, Christopher Race, Lord 
Wendon (who was lending the Prince his 
house), and Mirko's young brother (expected 
back presently from a visit to Paris) would 
be the only witnesses of the marriage, The 
bride and groom would travel quietly the 
same evening to the Isle of Wight, where 
Lord Wendon offered his country house for 
the honeymoon. But it would be a short 
honeymoon ; for as soon as arrangements 
could be rushed through Mirko and Eloise 
were eager to start for Dalvania* 

Unless Christopher heard to the contrary, 
he was to call at the house in Regent's Park 
at twelve o'clock on Saturday. His car was 
not to accompany him, but he volunteered 
her services and his to spin the bride and 
groom as far as South sea. 

There was no reason why Christopher 
should have expected to hear from Eloise or 
the Prince before Saturday, for their plans 
were carefully made and seemed likely to 
be carried out successfully, whatever might 
happen afterwards. Yet, somehow, he did 
expect to hear; and though, as luck would 
have it, he received a rather tempting offer 
for his car for the four days preceding the 
wedding, he could not bring himself to accept 
it " If anything should happen and I 
should be gone ! " he thought, with a 
nervous apprehension foreign to his nature. 

Really it seemed as if the love 
affairs of Prince Mirko of Dal 
vania had got upon his nerves, 
for he grudged leaving his dingy 
lodgings for more 
than half an hour at 
a time, lest a special 
messenger or a tele- 
gram should come 
from Eloise Dauvray 
and he should not 
be there to receive 
it But nothing did 
come; and on Wed- 
nesday afternoon, 
feeling the need of 
air and exercise, he 
went out for a stroll 
in the Park, The 
day was so fine and 
he saw so many 
charming persons 
that he forgot his 

secret and, perhaps, foolish anxieties. It 
was after five o'clock when he somewhat 
reluctantly returned to Chapel Street \ and 
he had been away for close upon two hours. 

As he let himself in with his latch key, 
which never would work properly, he remem- 
bered old days, and his handsome chambers. 
Still, he had no regrets. Poverty and inde- 
pendence had given him some very good 
adventures, he thought ; and nearly stumbled 
against the lodging-house maid of-all-work, 
carrying somebody's tea, 

"Oh, sir, what a good thing you've got 
back 3 " she exclaimed. " The lady's been 
watting for you a good ha If- hour. Missus 
said I was to take her up this to amuse her, 
as she was in such a state at your not being 
at 'ome." 

"A lady?" echoed Christopher. He kept 
up an acquaintanceship with very few ladies 
nowadays, and knew none who were likely to 
call upon him, 

"Yes, sir, a beautiful lady — leastways she's 
beautifully dressed, and J er figure's like a 
girl's, though 'er face is covered up. First 
there was a note by messenger, when you 
hadn't been gone five minutes, and it seems 
the lady sent it, for when she arrived she 
asked if it 'adn't come all right, and if you'd 
N ad it ; but there it was in its envelope on your 
dining-room table, where she's 'ad it under 
'er eyes ever since she was put to sit there." 

Christopher put no more questions, but 
ran up the two flights of stairs to the second 
floor, two steps at a time, the little maid 
following more sedately with the brown tea- 
pot and thick 
bread and butter 
on a tray twice 
too big for her. 






As he opened the sitting-room door Eloise 
Dauvray sprang up. " At last ! " she cried. 
44 I've been praying for you to come. You're 
my one hope." 

Then she paused for the maid, who 
appeared with the tray ; but when they were 
alone neither thought of the tea. 

" What has happened ? " Christopher asked, 

44 Mirko has disappeared," Eloise answered. 

For an instant Christopher was silent. 
Then, " Since when ? " he asked. 

" That I don't know. But he was to have 
lunched with my grandmother and me at a 
little riverside hotel, so quiet and secluded 
that we would have been quite safe — we've 
lunched there before. He didn't come ; we 
waited lunch for an hour, then — for neither 
of us could eat — we drove home. No word 
had been sent me. I wired to Lord 
Wendon's, but got no answer — that showed 
me Mirko couldn't be there ; and I dared 
not go to ask news from the servants, for 
the house may be watched. Then I thought 
of you, and hurried off a messenger with that 
note on the table. He returned to me saying 
that you were not in. After a whole hour of 
waiting I could stand it no longer, but drove 
here in a hansom. Mr. Race, what do you 
think has become of him ? Has Turkey 
got wind of the plot for the raid, and has he 
been murdered, like his father ? " 

" Don't think of such a thing," said 
Christopher. " They wouldn't go so far as 
that at worst. A dozen things may have 
happened— none of them tragic. He may 
have been motoring with Wendon or some 
other friend, and have got en panne miles 
from a telegraph office." 

41 1 thought of that ; but he had no plan 
for motoring to-day or he would have told 
me. And I feel that something is wrong — 
desperately wrong." 

44 Shall I go to his house and find out what 
I can from his servants ? " asked Christopher. 

44 Oh, if you would ! " she sighed. 44 It was 
one thing I wanted you to do." 

44 I'll start at once," he said. 44 1 can be 
back in half an hour." 

He was back in less ; but he had very 
little that was satisfactory to tell. He had 
asked for Prince Mirko, alleging an engage- 
ment with him, only to hear from the stately 
hall-porter that His Royal Highness had 
walked out alone about nine o'clock in the 
morning, saying nothing of his intentions, 
and had not come in since. Even his valet 
had no idea where he had gone, nor when he 
intended to return. 

Digitized by C.OOgle 

On hearing this, Christopher, knowing that 
the valet was more or less in his Royal 
master's confidence, asked to speak with him. 
The man was brought, and Christopher saw 
him alone, behind closed doors, in a small 
ante-room off the hall. All the valet could 
tell him, however, was that the Prince had 
appeared somewhat disturbed when reading 
some letters which came by the first post 
One of these he had placed under a paper- 
weight, and had put it in an inner pocket of 
his coat immediately after dressing, which 
he did more quickly and earlier than usual. 
This letter the valet believed to be one which 
he had noticed because it was addressed 
in Prince Peter's hand, and postmarked 
Paris. Another letter His Royal Highness 
had read carefully, two or three times over ; 
and then, ordering the fire already laid in 
the grate to be lighted, had burned it, watch- 
ing till the paper and envelope were both 
entirely consumed. 

These details were vouchsafed to Chris- 
topher because Mirko had lately men- 
tioned his name to the confidential servant 
as that of a valued friend ; and the man 
appeared to be slightly anxious, though not 
greatly upset, on account of his master's 
absence. His Royal Highness, he said, had 
somewhat erratic ways, and this was not by 
any means the first time that in England and 
other countries he had gone out, staying 
away all day, or even more than a day, with- 
out having announced any such intention. 
True, he had been very regular in his habits 
for the last three weeks (this tallied with the 
time of his engagement to Miss Dauvray), 
but it was not so very surprising that now 
and then he should go back to his old ways 

44 Does this comfort you ? " Christopher 
questioned, somewhat doubtfully, of Eloise ; 
but she shook her head. 

44 No," she answered. 44 He wouldn't have 
broken his appointment with me for anything 
on earth, if — he hadn't been forced to. 
Now, what forced him to break it?" 

44 Have you no suspicions ? " asked 
Christopher, searching the girl's face with 
his eyes ; for she had snatched off the veil 
she had worn in driving to Chapel Street. 

44 1 thought that — Turkey might have 
found out, and considered it worth while 
to remove him," she faltered. 

44 Is that your only idea ? " 

44 The only developed one. All the rest 
are vague — and mad. But — there's one 
thing I had better tell you, though it may 
have no connection with this — I pray to 



2 59 

Heaven it hasn't* The day before you took 
us in your car to see your uncle, Ponsonby 
Fitzgerald came." 

" To your house ? " 

** Yes. He wrote a note to announce that 
he was coming, saying that I must throw 
over everything else to receive him, as it was 
important for my interests as well as his. So 
I — I positively dared not refuse. You are the 
only person in the world except Mirko to 
whom I could tell this, because you know 
Ponsonby Fitzgerald, and that we used to be 
— rather pals, in my dark days. But I didn't 
mean to speak of his visit, even to Mirko. 
I knew it would make him furious that the 
man had forced himself on me, and he 
wouldn't understand my motive for receiving 

" Nor do I quite understand," Christopher 

"Men can't understand women. They 
think we ought always to be brave and strong. 
But ir was like this. Ponsonby let me alone 
for awhile after Milly van Bou ten's ball. As 
he won the Blue Diamond prize he was in 
funds t and all the more as I refused 
my share, which he was ready to pay- 
Three weeks ago I had a letter 
from him saying we must meet 
and talk over a new idea of his ; 
but I pretended to have a lot of 
engagements, and on one excuse 
or another I kept putting him off, 
hoping that, before he grew too 
impatient, Mirko and I might be 
married and safely beyond his 
reach for ever. He'd hardly follow 
to Dal van i a, to take revenge, or 
claim my help again ! But I was 
afraid, from the tone of the last 
letter, that the thing I dreaded had 
happened* I thought he might 
have come to suspect that Mirko 
and I cared for each other. I felt 
it would be best to see him and 
find out, though it made me sick 
at heart even to think of the 

"And did he suspect?" asked 

"If he did, he was too clever 
to give me reason to suppose so. 
He came to get my help in a — 
in a kind of speculation he's going 
into, and when I told him I 
couldn't possibly do anything he 
insisted obstinately, even threaten- 
ing disagreeable consequences if I 
persisted in refusing. I told him 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

that I should be away— out of England— at 
the very time he wanted me ; and he caught 
at that instantly. Where was I going ? he 
asked ; and then I would have given a great 
deal if I hadn't spoken. But I saved myself 
by saying I should be in Paris. (That's 
true, you know— we must pass through Paris 
— and he knows I have friends there whom 
I've visited once or twice.) I hope he 
fancied I was going to them. In any case, 
he shrugged his shoulders as if in resignation 
saying, ' I wish you joy of Paris/ Then he 
went away, leaving me horribly depressed and 
almost ill. I trusted that, after all, the worst 
result of the visit was my headache ; but 
now Tin not so sure* It may have been his 
object to deceive me, and keep me from 
divining how much he knew — or guessed." 
It was on Sunday that he came," 
Christopher reflected, aloud " It's now 

" Yes. He's had plenty of time to play 
the spy since. Of course, we — Mirko and I — 
couldn't help showing that we were rather 
absorbed in each other at the few dances 
and receptions where we have met. People 
may have gossiped ; Ponsonby may have 





heard the gossip, and had his suspicions 

"Hasn't he enough generosity in his 
nature to be glad that you should be happy ? " 
asked Christopher. 

" He has a heart of ice, and is as selfish as 
he is clever and unscrupulous. I've been 
valuable to him, and there are things he can't 
do, houses he can't get into, without me. 
He would hate me to escape, and would 
prevent it if he could. Could he have gone 
to the Turkish Ambassador and betrayed 

" What could he betray, except his idea 
that you might be in love with each other ? " 

" Perhaps nothing. I don't think Ponsonby 
Fitzgerald could have found out about the 
raid. That secret's been too well kept. It 
isn't as if a few glances could betray it, as 
they can a love affair. But Mirko has dis- 
appeared. Something dreadful has happened. 
I have to think of every chance, though 
maybe Ponsonby has nothing to do with his 
disappearance. Oh, Mr. Race, I feel as if I 
were blind and drowning ! My love for 
Mirko clouds my judgment That's why I 
came to you. Help me — help me ! " 

"I'm going to try," said Christopher, 
simply. " But I want a little time to think 
things over." 

The girl rose. " I'll go," she said, hastily. 
"It's just possible there may be news at 
home. If there is, I'll let you know. And 
you won't keep me in suspense a moment 
when there's anything to tell ? " 

Christopher gave her his promise, as he 
put her into a cab. When he was alone 
once more he sat down in the dull sitting- 
room, still faintly fragrant from her presence, 
and resting his elbows on the table he sat 
with his head in his hands. 

This had always been his way when there 
was something abstruse to think over and 
thrash out He had sat thus for half an 
hour after hearing of his uncle's determination 
to disinherit him. Then he had sprung up 
with an inspiration, and his enterprise with 
Scarlet Runner had been the result. 

A theory of Christopher's was that, if you 
wanted to know exactly what a man was most 
likely to do, you must put yourself in his 
place, see life with his eyes, desire the things 
that he desired. Now he strove to imagine 
himself Ponsonby Fitzgerald — Ponsonby 
Fitzgerald going out of the Dauvray house 
furious because he had lost his valued 

Perhaps Fitzgerald had loved Eloise 
Dauvray a little in his selfish way, admiring 

Digitized by & 

her as he might a coveted picture- At all 
events, whether or no it had entered his mind 
to want her for himself, Fitzgerald would not 
wish any other man — especially one more 
highly placed than himself — to take her from 
him. He would not like to think of her as a 
queen, while he remained a somewhat passe 
young man about town in London. 

" He wouldn't have given it away to her if 
he guessed about the love affair," Christopher 
said to himself. " What would he do, then ? 
I think he'd try to make sure whether his 
suspicions were correct, and if they were 
he'd try still harder to separate Miss Dauvray 
and the Prince — partly to keep her under 
his thumb, partly to revenge himself upon 
her for loving another man and planning 
to escape. He'd watch her, and he'd watch 

Having gone so far in his deductions, 
Christopher remembered that Fitzgerald had 
seen Eloise on Sunday. On Monday morning 
she and Mme. Dauvray had gone to Rich- 
mond. Perhaps Fitzgerald had followed 
them to the train, and had then returned to 
watch Mirko. If he had done this he must 
have seen Scarlet Runner stop at the door of 
Lord Wendon's house and take the Prince 

Here Christopher hesitated, wondering 
how Fitzgerald could have contrived to track 
the car, useless he had been already in a 
motor of his own, which seemed unlikely. 
But suddenly he recalled the fact that Prince 
Mirko had kept him waiting fifteen or twenty 
minutes until the Dalvanian Ambassador, 
who was calling, had made his elaborate 
adieux. That would have given Fitzgerald 
time to engage a motor-cab from a stand 
near by; and, as the traffic of London 
reaches to Richmond, Scarlet Runner had 
never a chance during the run to show her 
paces. A motor-cab could have kept her in 
sight ; and though Eloise Dauvray had been 
thickly veiled, Fitzgerald knew her too well 
not to recognise her figure as she left her 
friend's house. 

Afterwards Christopher had been able to 
put on speed, and would probably soon 
have outdistanced such a follower ; but 
Fitzgerald could have kept the trail by 
making inquiries, as Scarlet Runner was a 
conspicuous car, which everyone noticed ; 
and in any case he would have learned that 
Eloise and Mirko knew each other intimately 
enough to take a long run together in a 
motor. The fact that Christopher Race was 
the driver would have roused a suspicion in 
Fitzgerald's mind that he and Eloise had been 




in collusion at Miss van Bouten's ball ; and 
thus he would become more bitter against 
his old ally, more anxious than ever to do her 
an ill turn. How to do that ill turn would 
have been the question in his mind. 

If he had seen Rudovics, the Dalvanian 
Ambassador, leave the Prince's door, Fitz- 
gerald might have turned his attention to that 
gentleman, whom he probably knew by sight. 
If he had no inkling of Mirko's political 
situation he would make inquiries in diplo- 
matic circles, There someone would be 
aware of the fact that Rudovics desired hand- 
some Prince Mirko of Dalvania to marry his 

Such a piece of news would be precisely 
what Fitzgerald wanted, and he would seek 
some pretext to pay 
a call at the Dal- 
vanian Embassy. 

What would be 
Rudovics's action 
when he learned 
that the Prince he 
had secretly aided 
intended to disap- 
point his ambitious 
hopes? Would he 
revenge himself by 
betraying Mirko to 
Turkey, or would 
he seek other means 
of gaining his 
ends ? 

Christopher de- 
cided that if he 
were to help Eloise 
Dauvray, he could 
begin in no better 
way than by learn- 
ing what manner 
of man was the 

Dalvanian Ambassador to the Court of St, 

He had no friends in the diplomatic 
service living in England, for Max Lind 
was far away, but old Major Norburn, an 
ancient crony of James Race, had a nephew 
who was a clerk in the Foreign Office. 
Christopher went at once to the club where 
his uncle's friend spent his afternoons ; and 
by a stroke of luck the budding diplomatist 
had called to keep an appointment with his 
relative. The two were on the eve of start- 
ing out, but had a few moments to 
spare; and young Norburn was boyish 
enough to be flattered by Christopher's 
questions, which implied inside knowledge 
on his part. He perhaps did not know all he 

Digitized by GOOgle 

affected to know ; but he described Rudovics 
as inordinately vain, endlessly ambitious, 
subtle and proud of his subtlety; not bad 
at heart though sufficiently unscrupulous. 
u His part is a bit above his capacity/' said 
the young man from the Foreign Office, 
"and he'd have had no chance of it except 
through his wife. His marriage was brought 
about to serve the convenience of the powers 
that be in Turkey ; but the woman — who's 
half Irish — has been a beauty in her day, 
and all poor old Rudovics's honours have 
been given him for her sake. Those who are 
'in the know * say he despises King Alexander, 
and if he weren't afraid of his Turkish 
master would be in the thick of all the plot- 
tings. Of course, if that romantic-looking 


chap, Mirko, would take a fancy to the step- 
daughter, who is naturally a favoured protege* 
of Turkey, things might get uncomfortable 
for Alexander in Dalvania," 

11 What sort of girl is she ? " asked 

"They say beautiful, and quite a woman, 
though only seventeen. The mother's 
Catholic, and follows European customs 
when in Europe ; the girl, Valda, has been 
brought up in a Paris convent. Lately 
they've had her in London, *no doubt for 
Mirko s inspection ; but nobody seems to 
know whether the affair marches or not." 

Christopher would gladly have learned 
more, but the source of information was 
pumped dry, and he apologised for having 




kept the two Norbums so long from their 

" Rudovics is surely in this," Christopher 
said to himself; and suddenly an idea of 
what he would do in Rudovics's place sprang 
into the young man's mind. If Rudovics 
had done that— well, it would make things 
difficult* But perhaps, after all, by this time 
Mirko had come home, with a simple ex- 
planation of the mystery. Before seeing 
Eloise again he decided to call for the 
second time at Lord Wendons house to 
make inquiries. 

lt Has His Royal Highness Prince Mirko 
come back?" he asked of the hall porter, 

u No, sir ; but His Royal Highness Prince 
Peter has arrived from Paris," was the 

Christopher thought for a moment, and 
then scribbled a few lines on a card for 
Prince Peter, whom he had never seen. 
Presently he was invited to enter the library, 
where he had once been received by Mirko, 
and there stood the younger brother, a sur- 
prising likeness of the elder. 

Such a face as Peter's could be trusted for 
loyalty, if not for prudence, and Eloise had 
said that the boy knew of the engagement. 
Now Christopher, claiming friendship with 
Mirko and Miss Dauvray, spoke with partial 
frankness of his suspicions, 

"I believe," he said, u that somehow the 
Dalvanian Ambassador 
has got wind of the 
Princes engagement, 
and has tricked him, by 
means of a letter which 
your brother received this 
morning, into calling at 
the Embassy. There he'll 
keep him, if my idea is 
riffht, until after the 
a ppo i n t e d wedding-day, 
perhaps indefinitely, to 
separate him from Miss 
Dauvray, and if possible 
to bring about a marriage 
with his stepdaughter/' 

u Great heavens, sir ! 
The day that my brother 
marries Valda will be the 
day of my death," ex- 
claimed Peter. " 1 love 
her— she loves me. But 
Mirko doesn't know. He 
might take her without 
dreaming that he wronged 
me : and Valda is so 

not dare thwart her step-father. I have 
been with Mirko often at the Embassy, 
and the first moment I saw Valda I loved 
her— as it was with my brother and Miss 
Dauvray. I knew I had nothing to fear from 
his rivalry, so I kept my secret, though I knew 
his; for there seemed no hope of marriage for 
me until my brother's rise in fortune should 
give me something to offer—and I feared he 
would disapprove, as we are both so young. 
Mirko sent me to Paris some days ago with 
a letter to a friend of his who is enlisting 
recruits and raising money. But yesterday 
came a telegram from Valda, forwarded tt* me 
from this house— (I don't know who could 
have helped her> unless her maid) — begging 
me to come back, as she foresaw trouble. I 
wrote my brother I must return, wound up 
his affairs as well as 1 could, and here I am, 
only to find that trouble has come indeed. 
What shall I do? Shall I demand Mirko at 
the Embassy ? Jl 

" Certainly not/' said Christopher. N But 
Til tell you what you might do— elope with 
Mile, Valda, That would be a valuable move. 
If her maid helps her to send off secret 
telegrams, she will help smuggle you into the 
house. Do you know her name ? " 

" Anastasia," replied Peter* 

11 Disguise yourself as a man of her own 
classy and ask for her at the servants* door. 
If you can get Mile. Valda out of the 

young that she would 


by Google 


Original from 



Embassy before the day fixed for Prince 
Mirko's wedding with Miss Dauvray, your 
brother's happiness as well as your own will 
be assured. Take the young lady to Scotland 
with her maid for chaperon, and marry her 
quickly ; afterwards you can do things again 
in proper form. If her stepfather or her 
mother knows nothing of your love, neither of 
you will be watched or suspected ; you ought 
not to have great difficulties ; and I'll lend 
you my motor-car for the elopement." 

" What ! The Scarlet Runner, of which 
my brother wrote ? But that will bring me 

" I hope so, for everyone concerned," said 
Christopher. " I can't take you myself, for I 
shall have business in London ; but I'll get 
you a good chauffeur." 

"Your business will be to release my 
brother ? " Prince Peter guessed. 

" That's easier said than done," Christopher 
answered, gravely. " If he's in the Embassy, 
it's his own Embassy, you see ; there's no 
other power to appeal to. Turkey would 
defend Rudovics's action, if he declared that 
it was the only way to save a Royal prince 
from a marriage with an untitled, designing 
woman. Rudovics has nothing to fear in 
any case. And if we can learn that Prince 
Mirko is his prisoner, even if we can release 
him, still, good-bye to his happiness." 

" What do you mean ? " exclaimed Peter, 

"Something would certainly happen to 
Miss Dauvray. Their engagement known, 
those two would never be allowed to come 
together again. In some way — who knows 
how? — they would be separated for ever. 
To rescue your brother from the Embassy — 
taking it for granted he's there — means the 
breaking of his engagement." 

" Then, the breaking of his heart. Have 
you no plan to save him ? " 

" I have a plan," said Christopher ; " but 
ifs a queer one." 
"Can I help ?" asked Peter. 
" By seeing Anastasia, finding out the 
gossip of the servants' hall, if any, concern- 
ing your brother, and running off with 
Rudovics's step-daughter as quickly as you 

When Prince Peter of Dalvania and 
Christopher Race had sketched out some 
thing which faintly resembled a plan, and 
had made arrangements concerning Scarlet 
Runner, Christopher kept his promise by 
going to Regent's Park and telling Eloise all 
that was in his mind. 
" You are right," she said, when she had 

Digitized by OOOgJC 

heard him to the end. "That letter the 
valet told you Mirko burnt must have been 
from Rudovics. No doubt he asked to have 
it destroyed, so that Mirko could not be 
traced. He would have spoken of important 
news from Dalvania, and hinted at mysterious 
reasons why Mirko should let no one know 
he had been bidden in such haste to the 
Embassy. While they have him there I may 
be safe enough ; but once he escapes, and 
they know it, I will tell you what they could 
do. They would have such horrible things 
published about me in the Dalvanian papers 
that, for Mirko's own sake, I could never 
consent to be his wife. The things need not 
all be true, but they would be believed ; and 
even if Mirko would give his people a queen 
they could not respect, I would not let him 
do it. Fitzgerald alone might try something 
of the sort, but I don't believe that unas- 
sisted he'd have influence to get such stuff 
published ; and if only I could appear first 
in Dalvania as Mirko's bride, the people 
would love me and be loyal." 

" I've thought of all that," said Christopher. 
• c It's exactly what Rudovics and Fitzgerald 
would do — if they did nothing worse. But 
once married to you, and the little Valda in 
Scotland with Peter, Rudovics's hands would 
be tied. It would do him more harm than 
good to hurt you then." 

"Ah, yes ; if once we were married!" sighed 

" Please be ready at the time already fixed 
for the wedding," said Christopher, quietly. 
" And have everybody else concerned in the 
ceremony ready, too." 

" What are you planning ? " cried Eloise, 
the rose of hope blushing in her cheek. 

" I can't tell you yet," he answered. " A 
good deal depends on Prince Peter and 
Scarlet Runner, and a good deal on my uncle 
and a house-agent. I'll write you what I'm 
doing and what you must do the moment I 
have anything definite to say." 

Eloise was bewildered, but she was a 
woman of tact, and knew when it was wise 
to be silent. 

Half an hour later Christopher, dinnerless, 
but too excited for hunger, was racing 
towards Hyde Hampton with Scarlet Runner. 
Ten minutes at his uncle's was enough, for 
old James Race was heart and soul for Prince 
Mirko and Eloise now. Christopher flew 
back Londonward with a signed cheque in 
his pocket ; and, calling at Lord Wendon's 
in the car, found Prince Peter jubilant, just 
back from the Dalvanian Embassy. He had 
gone there in his valet's clothes and insisted 

■■-■1 1 y 1 1 1 a 1 




on seeing Anastasia, whose cousin he pre- 
tended to be. The maid had permission 
from Mme. Rudovics to go out on Friday 
evening ; Valda would pretend some slight 
indisposition, keep her room all day, and 
leave the house, well veiled, in Anastasia's hat 
and cloak. Afterwards the woman would 
do her best to follow unobserved, and a 
rendezvous would be made somewhere in 
the neighbourhood after dark, with Scarlet 
Runner in waiting. Then it was not likely 
that Valda's absence would be discovered till 
morning, and by that time she and her lover 
would be far on their way to Scotland. 

As for Mirko's presence in the house 
Anastasia had been able to say nothing 
definitely, but she did know that since morn- 
ing one of the rooms had been closed, on 
the plea that part of the ceiling had fallen, 
and no one was to go in until workmen 
should have come to repair the damage. 
On hearing this Peter had been thoughtful 
enough to inquire the position of the locked 
room, and had learned that it was at the 
back of the house on the second floor, and 
on the right of the corridor which ran down 
the middle of the three upper storeys. 

" Good ! " exclaimed Christopher. " I 
thought they'd put him there, for knocking 
on the wall would do no good if he tried it. 
There's an empty house on the right, you 
know. The one on the left's occupied. I 
can imagine old Rudovics inviting the Prince 
into the room, as if for a secret meeting with 
some emissary from Dalvania, then quietly 
turning the key. Rather smart idea that, 
about the fallen ceiling, And as the room's 
at the back, and the old-fashioned wooden 
shutters (which all the houses in Queen 
Anne's Gardens have) are probably nailed 
fast, your poor brother's as much a prisoner 
as if he were at Portland." 

Next morning at ten o'clock Christopher 
Race was at the door of Messrs. Leonard 
and Steele, estate and house agents, at the 
moment when it opened for business. He 
informed the manager that he had been 
empowered by Mr. James Race, of Hyde 
Hampton, to take No. 36, Queen Anne's 
Gardens, for three years (the shortest term 
permissible), if immediate possession could 
be given. 

The agent thought there would be little 
difficulty about this, and became certain of it 
when there was no attempt at cutting down 
the high rent asked for the old house, unlet 
for several years. A telephone message was 
sent to the owner, papers were signed, a 
cheque in advance for a quarter's rent was 

paid ; and presently Christopher found him- 
self in possession of the keys of 36, Queen 
Anne's Gardens, the house adjoining the 
Dalvanian Embassy on the right-hand side. 

About ten o'clock that night, having 
given all necessary instructions concerning 
Scarlet Runner to the chauffeur he trusted, 
Christopher unlocked the front door of his 
uncle's newly-acquired town house and 
walked in. He had with him, in a golfer's 
bag, a pickaxe, one or two other handy tools, 
and an electric lantern. To begin work, he 
chose the back room on the second floor, 
which, according to his calculations, was 
separated from Prince Mirko's prison only by 
the house wall. With a small hammer he 
tapped lightly once, twice, without receiving 
an answer. Then he was rejoiced by a 
responsive rapping on the other side. At 
first the knocks seemed to him desultory 
and irregular, but in a moment he realized 
that words were being formed by taps and 
spaces, long and short, according to the 
Morse code of telegraphy. 

Long ago Christopher had^ learned it at 
Eton, when he and another boy had sought 
means of secret communication. Evidently 
the occupant of the room beyond the wall 
had learned it, too. 

In ten minutes the two men, thus divided 
by bricks and mortar, were able to come to 
an understanding. Christopher was assured 
that he was talking with the Prince, Mirko 
was informed that he was talking with 
Christopher Race. Also, Christopher was 
able roughly to communicate his plan to the 
prisoner, and learned to his delight that there 
was a good prospect of success. Mirko 
indicated the position of a large wardrobe 
which stood in his room against the dividing 
wall, and suggested that Christopher's boring 
operations should be conducted behind it. 
When the bricks should be loosened Mirko 
would pull out the wardrobe, and be ready to 
push it back into place in case of danger. 

All night long Christopher worked, re- 
freshed with bread and wine from his bag ; 
and by early dawn he had dug a hole 
through which he could speak to the Prince. 
Until this moment he had outlined his plan 
but vaguely ; and what Mirko heard now 
amazed him. 

While London slept, and the old houses 
in Queen Anne's Gardens kept their wooden 
eyelids closed, four persons, who had stepped 
out of a closed carriage round the comer, 
walked quietly to the door of No. 36. 
There were three men and one woman ; and, 
having pushed the long-unused electric bell, 

by K: 



L| 1 1 Kl I I I -• I 1 1 




they were almost immediately admitted into 
the dark, unfurnished house. 

"Is all well — so far?" asked Eloise 
Dauvray, whispering, in the dim corridor. 

M All is well — so far/ 1 answered Christopher 

It was not until after ten o'clock in the 
morning that the absence of little Lady 
Valda and her maid was discovered by 
Mme* Ru do vies, for she was a late riser by 
habit, and ihe girl had posed as an invalid 
the day before. Under Valda's pillow a note 
had been slipped, "I have gone away to 
many Prince Peter of Dal van ia. We love 
each other," And that news had sent the 
Ambassador in haste to the door of the 
closed room, where no work had yet been 
begun upon the " fallen ceiling." 

He unlocked the door, and knocked by 
way of court esy t two 
men— tall Da I van i an s 
both, in his own pri- 
vate service — stand- 
ing on guard as usual 
lest the prisoner 
should attempt an 
escape. Each time 
since Mirko's capture 
Rudovics had himself 
brought the Prince's 
meals in this fashion, 
twice within twelve 
hours, bearing also a 
hundred apolc igies for 
his "necessary but 
regrettable harsh- 
ness." Not once be- 
fore had the indignant 
Mirlco answered the 
knock, but now his 
voice responded with 
a cheerful " Come 


"Congratulate nit'," 
he continued, as Ru- 
dovics fell back upon 
the threshold, aghast 
at what he saw. " And 
let me introduce you 
to my dear wife, the 
Princess Eioise. We 
thought a wedding at 
the Embassy an excel- 
lent plan, and have 
been married for an 

A thousand 
thoughts raced each 

Vol *niiL-34* 

other through the Ambassador's head as he 
Stood staring, first at the pale, smiling girl, 
the two priests, the registrar, and the hole 
in the w T all by which they and Christopher 
had entered. 

He thought of his daughter, and was 
forced to hope— in the circumstances — that 
she was the younger brother's wife by this 
time. He thought of his own chances of 
advancement in Dal van ia under a new king. 
He thought of Turkey's probable attitude 
towards a struggle in which Valda's husband 
would be engaged as well as his brother ; 
and he thought of nine hundred and ninety- 
seven other things, all in the space of one 
long moment 

Then he bowed and said, slowly : " Gra- 
ciously allow your host to he the first who 
offers your Royal Highness and his bride 
all possible good wishes." 



3 y Google 


Frederick R, Burton 

LITTLE more than five years 
ago I had the honour of be- 
coming a North American 
Indian through the impressive 
ceremony of adoption at the 
hands of a tribe of Ojibways 
living along the Canadian shores of I^akes 
Huron and Superior This singular dis- 
tinction was due to my self-appointed task 
of preserving the songs of these people from 
extinction. Ft came to me only after what 
seemed to be no end of opposition to 
my work of reducing their music to notes 
— for they have no system of notation 
whatever, their songs, like their well -known 
legends, being transmitted orally from one 
generation to another. At first they put 
every obstacle in my way, except physical 
violence. They had sore throats when I 
asked them to sing, or they suddenly forgot 
what English they knew, or they failed to 
keep appointments, or they refused point- 
blank to let me hear a sound. 

I could not understand it, for at that time 
I had nothing better than the white man's 
usual misconception of Indian character, 
and I stuck to my work with the greater obsti- 
nacy because the opposition of the Indians 
heightened my conviction that their songs 
were worth getting at any cost. So on many 
occasions I lay for hours behind bushes, 
music-paper on the ground before me, jotting 
down such notes as I could distinguish above 

fatty tW» 

the clamour of the drum in a party of 
Ojibways singing near me and unaware of 
my proximity. In this way, after scores of 
failures, I succeeded in transcribing " My 
Bark Canoe n and some half-dozen other 
songs, and meantime I was doing my best, 
in an ignorant but patient way T to win the 
confidence of the Indians and convince them 
that I contemplated no wrong. 

Their attitude may be understood if 1 
quote part of a speech made to me by Tele 
bahbundung, who eventually became one of 
my most valued and faithful collaborators, 
I was early attracted to him because of his 
voice, one of the most perfect and lovely 
tenors I have ever heard That it is an 
utterly uncultivated voice might go without 
saying, Tetebahbundung cannot read or 
write any language, much less music, and all 
he knows about the art was taught him by 
Nature ; but she: was a good teacher, and his 
"tone production 1 ' is as perfect as anything 
human can be. In recent years I have made 
him sing before professional tenors, who have 
frankly expressed their despair of equalling 
his "production/' and who have been much 
mystified a®jtHiffrtrh**re he got his method." 




I used to try to induce 
Tetebahbundung to sing 
for me privately and 
without the drum, that 
I might be sure of nu- 
tating the melodies with- 
out error, I argued with 
him, challenged him, 
teased him, offered him 
money T all to no pur- 
pose This was through 
btosso way, a fri end 1 y 
chief who spoke Eng- 
lish fluently and who 
had the Indian's tradi- 
tional gift of orator}'. 
At length Ave were upon 
such terms of friendship 


From a. Photo, by Alfred & C«jij>bell Art CV- h EluaJriA, jr. J. 

in all matters 
except music 
that I succeeded 
in drawing from 
him his reason 
for denying me 
the one favour 
I asked. It was 
in my one- room 
cabin on an 
island in Lake 
Huron. None 
were with us ex- 
cept the mem- 

Tetebahb un- 
dung will be 
looked on as a 
bad man by his 
people if he 
sings for you. 
As long as he 
lives they will 
reproach and 
shun him as a 
traitor to his 
people. For 
you will send 
our songs all 

not u nde rst and it. 
Listen, sir ! When the 
white man first came 
among us we did every- 
thing he told us to, for 
it was plain that he knew 
much more than we did- 
What has been the re- 
sult? I [e has taken away 
our land, he has denied 
us the freedom of the 
forest , he has penned us 
in reservations, he has 
taken away from us every- 
thing Indian that we 
had except our songs, 
and now you come to 
take away them also. 

1 a Photo, bv Alfred 
Campbell Art C?- t 
KtoabeUi, S.J. 

bers of my family. 
Tet ebah bu n d u n g 
made me a long 
speech, a portion 
of which Chief 
Ob 1 0% 9 o w a y 
translated as 
follows :— 

"Listen, sir! 
We like you, we 
like your lady, 
we like your chil- 
dren, but we do 


\prvm a Phtfoanph. 




From d Phvta. by Alfred 

if. Oamjtbell Art Co, 

Etimhfth, BFJ. 

over the world, 
the white man 
will sing them 
everywhere \ and 
aft^r that you 
will turn on us, 
like the white 
men who pre- 
ceded you, and 
say, ' Get out ! I 
have no further 
use for you/ " 




A long debate followed, in which I tried 
to show my friends that I purposed to take 
away nothing that I should not leave behind; 
that they would still have their songs, no 
matter how many white men sang them. 
My argument was not convincing, and when 
I spoke about harmonizing the melodies, and 
writing accompaniments for pianoforte or 
organ, I succeeded merely in befogging a 
subject already dark and dubious. 

Nevertheless, it was through harmony that 
eventually I won the confidence and co- 
operation of the Indians. It must be under- 
stood that their music is limited to melody 
and rhythm. Their instrumental outfit 
includes only the drum and various minor 
contrivances like gourd rattles and notched 
sticks for accentuating the rhythm. There 
is, indeed, a very rare instrument miscalled a 
flute — it is really a magnified flageolet— but 
I am convinced that it came into existence 
only after the coming of white men with their 
military bands, and that it is, therefore, an 
attempt at imitation of the white man's 
music. Whatever its origin and antiquity, 
it can have no bearing on the matter of 
harmony, because its intervals are ludicrously 
imperfect. Moreover, it is never used as an 
accompaniment to the voice, but as a sub- 
stitute for it, the bashful suitor playing his 
love-song on the instrument before he finds 
courage to express his sentiments in words. 

So song is the beginning and end of Ojib- 
way music, and the Indians had not dis- 
covered the possibility of singing in parts. 
Their choruses are unisonous, or, when both 
sexes sing together, unison in the octave. 

by K: 



One day, when I 
was in the depths of 
perplexity over the 
difficulties with which 
the Indians beset my 
path, I resolved on a 
hazardous experi- 
ment. Not to make 
a long story of it, a 
quartet of white 
singers came my way 
and I speedily in- 
terested them in my work. In 
the forenoon I made a four- 
voice arrangement of " My 
Bark Canoe," the words of 
which I had translated long 
previously; in the afternoon 
the quartet sat on my bed and 
rehearsed the music; in the 
'"" — "- evening I invited all the 
Indians in the vicinity to a 
camp-fire, which is a social function the 
pure delights of which surpass any that may 
be had in a drawing-room. On such an 
occasion the Indians dance singly and together 
around the fire ; he who will not trust him- 
self to sing tells a story ; all drink deeply of 
coffee and eat as much cake as may be pro- 
vided, and the men smoke. 

About fifty Indians — men, women, and 
children — responded to my invitation. 
When the ice had been broken and I 
thought the time was ripe for it, I made a 
speech, in which I promised to show them 
just what I was doing with their songs. " If 
you will sing i My Bark Canoe ' in your way," 
I said, " my paleface friends here will sing it 
for you in our way." 

After some characteristic hesitation and 
talking it over the Indians complied, 
Tetebahbundung leading and the whole 
company standing up and joining. Imme- 
diately after the Indians had finished the 
white quartet arose, and, taking the pitch 
established by the red men, sang the har- 
monized version with the English words. 
The effect was marvellous. Leaping to their 
feet, the Indians shouted and screamed till 
it seemed as if the sky would split The 
white singers were not a little startled by the 
demonstration, but it was nothing more than 
frenzied applause, and quiet was restored 
instantly when they began a repetition of the 
piece. They had to sing it several times 
over, and at last the Indians surrounded me, 
inquiring eagerly if they could learn to sing 
"like that," meaning in parts. 
The experiment succeeded admirably. 




From that time all serious opposition to my 
work ceased, and the Indians became my 
collaborators. In token of their appreciation 
they offered me the honour of adoption, the 
highest compliment the Indian can pay the 
white, and bestowed upon me the name 
l * Xegaunneckahboh/' which means u He 
who stands in front." This name arose from 
the fact that certain influential members of 
the tribe saw me first in Chicago, where they 
had gone to figure 111 a series of elaborate 
entertainments. It happened 
that I was conductor of the 
orchestra, and the Indians 
were brought in while a. re- 
hearsal was in pro- 
p-ess. They were 
deeply interested, and 
no work could be 
had from them until 
the rehearsal was 
over. Naturally 
enough, they referred 
to me in their con- 
versations about the 
matter as the man 
who stood in front, 
and when they came 
Co name me in the 
ceremony of initia- 
tion it was entirely 
in accordance with 
Indian custom that 
they should choose 
the designation that regis- 
tered their first impression 
of me. 

Song enters into every 
detail of the Ojibway's 
life, His prayer is a 
song, as is his mourning 
for the dead ; a religious ceremony is 
inconceivable without music ; it is even an 
essential feature of his gambling; the climax 
of a chiefs address to his warriors is a song. 
Some of their songs are crude, well-nigh 
formless, but in the main their melodies are 
far superior to those of any other Indian 
tribe. It is not my purpose to dwell here 
upon the many technical considerations with 
which the subject is crowded, and which 
tempt a theorist to extended discussion ; but 
as one question is always asked by persons 
to whose attention the subject is brought, I 
will anticipate it very briefly. 

The Ojibway scales are incomplete, the 
fourth or seventh, and often both, being 
omitted; but the intervals that remain accord 
*ith the intervals of our harmonic scale- 

Nearly all their songs are distinct in tonality, 
and therefore susceptible of harmonization. 

Interesting as technical considerations are 
to the theorist, their importance disappears, 
even to his apprehension, in face of the 
aesthetic value of the songs. To me they 
are as charming as anything in the literature 
of song of any country, civilized or uncivilized, 
and the devotion of the Ojibways themselves 
to them is a testimonial to their inherent 
strength ; for in the general decay of every- 
thing that pertained 
to the old Indian 
life, these songs per- 
sist in the affections 
and habits of the 
people to a remark- 
able degree. The 
words of ancient cere- 
monials often give 
place to modem love 
verses, the melodies 
surviving the need 
for which they were 
created. It is true 
enough, sadly true, 
that the younger 
ge nerat io n of Oj i b- 
ways are neglecting 
the native melodies 
in preference for 
white man's music, 
but this is merely an 
u n for t unat e i nd ica 
tion of their love of 
music generally. 
They are not aware 
that the trash of the 
i( halls " is far inferior 
to the tunes of their 
own making j but, 
in spite of their growing acquaintance with 
modern paleface tunes, I have always heard 
the original native songs under circumstances 
that called for the deepest feelingsof the singer. 
I remember a Sunday afternoon when I 
had occasion to remain long in the imme- 
diate vicinity of a wigwam in front of which 
a young man sat alone, tapping gently on his 
drum and singing softly to himself. I do 
not know when he began, but it was one 
o'clock when I first heard him, and he was 
still at it when I went away at five. During 
that period I think he sang no more than 
six songs. Each was repeated many times 
before he took up another, and there was 
one to which he recurred so often that I am 
quite sure he spent two hours on it. 

A number q( Indian families were camped 





one summer near a rustic hotel on the 
Canadian shore of Lake Huron. Whenever 
the tourists had an evening of musical enter- 
tainment, the Indians gathered silently on 
the veranda to listen. One day, when he 
thought all the visitors were away on fishing 
excursions, Waubunosa, one of the young 
braves, in full ceremonial costume, slipped 
into the music-room and seated himself at 
the pianoforte. He spent quite an hour try- 
ing, unsuccessfully, to pick out a tune with 
one finger. It was an Indian song he 
struggled with, not a white man's. 

I spent much of one summer on the 
Garden River Reservation in Ontario, where 
Tetebahbundung lives. Having occasion to 
see him of an evening, I strolled over to his 
log-house. As I approached I heard his 
drum, and I paused at the door, fearing to 
make an ill-timed intrusion. He was singing 
a love-song, repeating it in true Indian fashion 
many times over. The end came with 
disaster, for he beat with added vigour, and 
of a sudden the tone of the drum was dull. 
Drumming and singing ceased abruptly, and 
I heard Tetebahbundung mutter a low 
" Ah ! " Then I knocked. He came slowly, 
and the open door revealed a room dark save 

of instrumental support. To this musical 
Indian the tuneless drum was as the respon- 
sive keyboard, and without it his diversion 
was unthinkable. I asked him how he 
would manage now that his drum was 
broken, and he replied, simply, that he 
would make another. 

It was at Garden River that I found a 
song that has a certain degree of historical 
value. Melodically considered, it is one of 
the crudest examples of Ojibway art I ever 
heard, but the event with which it is asso- 
ciated makes it especially interesting. About 
thirty-five years ago King Edward VII. — 
then Prince of Wales — visited Canada. He 
went, among other places, to Sarnia, at the 
southern end of Lake Huron. At that time 
the chief of the Ojibways was Shingwauk, the 
ablest man undoubtedly who ever ruled over 
the tribe. He lived at Garden River, some 
dozen miles east of Sault Ste. Marie. This 
general locality has been the ancestral home 
and head-quarters of the Ojibway people as far 
back as their history can be definitely traced. 

Shingwauk selected twenty warriors, who 
sailed the length of the lake with him to 
meet the Prince. When the party was ready 
to embark the chief made a speech to his 

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for the dying embers in the fireplace, empty 
save for himself. 

" Come in," said he, by way of greeting, 
and I responded that 1 had heard him 
singing. " Yes," he admitted, ruefully, " and 
now my drum is broke. I pound a hole in it. 
My wife and boy she gone, visiting. I was 
lonesome. So I got my drum and sang. 
No more song now," and he laughed a little. 

Is comment necessary? Simply to point 
out that the white musician, under such 
circumstances, might betake himself to the 
pianoforte to ease his soul. Should the 
strings snap he would no longer sing, failing 

people by way of farewell. The climax of 
the speech was this song, which the chief 
sang as the boat started from shore, and I 
am told that it was afterwards sung before 
the Prince at Sarnia. The tune was an 
ancient war-song, to which the chief adapted 
words of his own appropriate to the occasion. 
I heard the song first from Mrs. Sagache- 
wiose, a granddaughter of Shingwauk, who 
remembers well how T she stood on the shore 
with all the village and watched the warriors 
set forth on their journey. I have referred 
the song to other Indians who were alive at 
that time, and all remember it. 





The words mean : " The shij> sails away 
in which I embark to meet the chief, the 
great woman-chief's son, I shall return in 
the ship when the ship sails back." 

Most Ojibway melodies are short, confined 
to what the theorist calls the simple period, 
which is sometimes of the white man's con- 
ventional eight measures, but quite as often 
of six, and not rarely of ten. There are 
seldom words enough in a song to fill out 
the shortest melody without repetition, and 
in very many songs the singer, rather than 
repeat the same words over and over, fills 
out the line with meaningless syllables. The 
favourite syllables for this purpose are 
" Heyah, heyah," and they may occur after 
the significant words, or before them in the 
manner of an introduction ; and in some 
instances the significant line is actually inter- 
rupted to bring them in for the evident sake 
of preserving the rhythm of the melody. 

The songs have rhythmic peculiarities that 
are sometimes disturbing at first to the white 
man, as t for example, the alternation of 3-4 
and 4-4 time in td My Bark Canoe," and the 
frequent appearance of 5-4 measures. In- 
deed, the 5-4 rhythm is a favourite of the 

Digitized by (j* 

Ojibways, some of 
their songs adhering 
to it from beginning 
to end- These pecu- 
liarities are due 
partly to the accents 
of the words when 
used in ordinary 
conversation, the 
Ojibway composer 
not quite equalling 
his white brother in 
the freedom with 
which he mutilates 
language ; but they 
arise more often from 
a novel perception 
of melodic relations, 
and they constitute 
an important factor 
in making the songs 
distinctive — that is, 
different from those 
of any other people, 
I am including in 
the examples given 
herewith the noblest 
melody in the entire 
collection, " Hia* 
watha's Death Song. 1 * 
It demands a word of 
explanation. Some 
of the legends of the Ojibways have been made 
known to all the world through Longfellow's 
poem, "The Song of Hiawatha," In the 
Indian play based on the same legends, and 
performed by Indians only, this death-song is 
used as the final utterance of the prophet to 
his people when he departs for 

The islands of the Klessed, 
To the land of the Hereafter* 

For that purpose the word " Hiawatha ** has 
been introduced into the song in place of the 
Ojibway name that stood there originally. 

I have harmonized this and other songs, 
partly to interpret them in the same spirit with 
which I seek to express the full meaning 
behind the Ojibway words, and partly to make 
them available for white singers. No words 
of mine can make them appeal if they do 
not win their way by their own strength, and 
I suspect that they will always give greater 
delight to those of us who have been so 
fortunate as to hear them on lake and in 
wilderness j their strains, now majestic, now 
imbued with pathos and tenderness, appealing 
to us as the yearning cry of Mother Nature, 
who would call us back from the artificial life 
of the city to the simple ways of the forest, 



By C C Andrews. 

ALCONER, m he left the 
house, was unquestionably a 
little out of temper. "At 
Homes," with their crowding, 
their tin drinkable tea, and 
banalities of chatter, were 
functions he avoided whenever possible ; 
certainly he would never have attended this 
one but for the prospect of seeing Monica 
Thorold, He had made so sure of doing so 
that her non-appearance was in itself suffi- 
cient to ruffle his humour. And the fact 
that he had found himself abandoned to the 
jejune and ejaculatory conversation of his 
hostess's seventeen-year-old daughter had 
not lessened his irritation* The knowledge 
that Mrs. Trenchard was distinctly of the 
old school, looking frankly askance upon the 
social reception and advancement of men of 
his profession, and that her circle plainly 
shared her views, was not even partially 
soothing. A man in whom vanity is naturally 
active and sensitive does not take the smallest 
slight easily at any time ; still less when— as 
was his case — he has made a prodigious hit, 
and scored, as Press and public united to 
declare, the theatrical triumph of the year. 
That little Minnie Trenchard had looked 
and spoken with the innocently-crude admira- 
tion of her years — or her lack of them — had 
made no difference. His taste for bread 
and butter, if he had ever possessed it, had 
evaporated long ago- In the act of stepping 
into his waiting motor he checked himself 
Perhaps the clear, crisp coldness of the 
December evening tempted him, or it may 
have been that he designed to get rid of the 
galling sense of irritation which it annoyed 
him to feel. 

" Be at the theatre at the usual time," he 
ordered his man, curtly, " I shall walk." 

He walked, getting over the ground easily 
with his long, swinging stride ; the exercise 
was one he was fond of. Many heads were 
turned to look after him. Since his great 
hit the illustrated weeklies, photographers' 
windows, and picture post -cards had com- 
bined to make his fair, handsome, finely-cut 
face a widely familiar thing ; certainly his 
physical advantages had been no inconsider- 
able factor in his success. Falconer, gazing 
straight before him with steady, abstracted 
eyes, was usually as acutely aware of these 
glances as a woman could have been. To-day 

his thoughts were otherwise occupied ; 
Monica Thorold loomed larger in them than 
his own personality, He was close to a 
by-lane, almost deserted at that hour, which 
would bring him out by a short cut within 
a stoneVthrow of the theatre, when he 
slackened his pace with a sudden sensation 
that he was being followed. Footsteps— the 
footsteps of two — seemed to have detached 
themselves from the stream of traffic and to 
be close behind him. He half swung round 
as he turned the corner. The two men were 
a bare arm's length away, the first, indeed, so 
near that he almost touched him. He was 
quick enough to see the second catch this 
one by the shoulder, drawing him back. 

" No," he said, in a hurried whisper, " not 
now. Wait—later! I've changed my mind/' 

Falconer had not fairly halted. As he 
w F ent on, quickening his pace, he felt that his 
understanding was simultaneous with his 
recognition of the speaker. Some half-a^ 
dozen times in the past month he had seen 
in the stalls this sun- reddened, keen- faced, 
elderly man with the thick white hair, w T h6se 
evening clothes had sat somehow incon- 
gruously upon his deep-chested, sturdy figure 
— had noted him not only on account of his 
frequent presence, but because of the curious 
intensity with which he seemed to watch not 
so much the performance as himself. More 
than once, indeed, he had found that he was 
unconsciously playing, not to the audience, 
but to that one fixed face. The flattery had 
been as welcome as obvious, but all the same 
he had got to wish the man away. As for 
why he had followed him, that, of course, 
was plain enough ; he had wished, as did 
many more, to make his personal acquaint- 
ance. His companion he (Falconer) no 
doubt knew ; his face, as he recalled it, was 
vaguely familiar, though when he tried he 
failed to place it definitely. Mixed with a 
certain sense of amusement — his unknown 
admirer, judging by his sudden withdrawal, 
was of a bashful turn — was one of satisfaction 
that the introduction had not taken place, 
since he was not in a mood to be gracious. 
But he had practically forgotten the incident 
by the time he reached the theatre and 
entered his dressing-room. A pile of letters 
lay waiting for him upon the table, but though 
he sat down before them he did not touch 
them. His thoughts, had drifted into their 



2 73 


old groove —he was really seriously perturbed. 
Had Miss ThoroltTs absence from the "At 
Home 15 been intentional? And, if so, was 
heat liberty to construe it into a deliberate 
snub for himself? 

He sat frowning as he considered it. She 
had certainly been all that was pleasant and 
charming when she had said she would be 
there ; bat it was afterwards that — in manner 
and tone, if not in actual words— he had 
ventured to go farther than he had gone yet. 
Had he gone too far and offended her ? She 
had shown no signs of offence ; but, then, she 
flight not have resented until she thought 
about it, or, indeed, fairly realized the direc- 
tion in which they were drifting. True, he had 
tried to make his intention plain, and she 
had seemed to understand and encourage 
il ; but it might be only seeming. And in 
Vol, JufJthl— 36- 

the background there were her people* He 
knew well enough that his suit would be 
looked upon with no favour by either her 
father or mother — the 
wealth of the one and rank 
of the other alike forbade 
it ; but her unconventional 
tastes and tentative incur- 
sions into Bohemia must 
at least have prepared them 
for the possibility of a 
match more or less dis- 
tasteful That he should be 
so regarded hardly galled 
his vanity, thin-skinned 
though it was ; rather, it 
moved him with a sense of 
tolerant amusement. There 
was no arguing, he said to 
himself with a shrug, 
against the iron-bound pre- 
judices of class. Of course, 
in point of birth he was 
nothing; but apart from 
the profession — and his 
triumph had placed him in 
such a position that he 
could demand and obtain 
pretty well what figure he 
pleased — apart from that 
he was not a poor man, far 
better off than most people 
suspected. He would snap 
his fingers at everybody and 
everything if only he were 
sure that the girl cared for 
him well enough to take 
him, Perhaps he had never 
before realized how much 
he desired that she should 
care. One of the few carping notes struck in 
the chorus of praise had declared that he was 
utterly wanting in " temperament," and that all 
his art was unable to conceal the lack. Read- 
ing—within limits he was capable of mental 
frankness — he had acknowledged it true 
enough. I Jul a month ago he had hardly 
known Monica. Now, did she care? Or 
was it a snub ? He turned to the little heap 
of letters, and saw among them one in her 
handwriting. He tore it open. 

Eminently satisfactory— an efficient salve 
for his irritated feelings and even for his 
fretted vanity. She was so sorry — what 
would he think of her? But what could one 
do in the face of an unexpected and exacting 
aunt and uncle from the country? He 
would undeOtioitiihitcsh? had found herself 

hd p |e mivB«i#tj™iK:teA^ crnoon ■>*> 



thus been sacrificed to duty, her evening 
should not be —she would be in the left-hand 
first-tier box with Lady Casterton, who, as 
he no doubt knew ? had been so impressed 
by his great scene in the last act that she was 
impatient to see the play again. There were 
a few more phrases equally graceful and 
gracious — altogether it was a charming 
letter. Moreover, there was in it a subtle 
something — a delicate note of intimacy, 
familiarity, which nothing she had hitherto 
written to him had possessed. The smile 
that brightened Falconer's face showed him 
at his handsomest; in a moment he had 
swung from one extreme to the other. If 
their next meeting furnished the ghost of a 
chance, he said to himself, resolutely, he 
would ask her to marry him. In the act of 
ringing for his dresser he stopped short ; his 
lifted hand fell, as though another hand had 
caught it back. 

Odd that the memory of Marion Rainsford 
should have obtruded itself just then — and 
equally absurd. There had been so little in 
the affair -it hnd formed a mere episode in 
his first provincial tour* 
Of course, the girl was 
a lady and— as the pro- 
fessional vernacular had 
it — as ''straight" 
as she was pretty 
and clever. 
" The crowd " 
had been much 
like other 
crowds ; he was 
fastidious, and 
had found her 
refinement an 
almost greater 
attraction than 
her beauty. As 
to how she came 
to be in a posi- 
tion manifestly 
unsuitable he 
had never in- 
qu ired very 
closely* He had 
heard vaguely of 
family losses and 
trouble — it was 
probably a usual 
enough story. 
Of course, again, 
he had admired 
her ; had, per- 
haps, for a while 
thought of a 

possible future marriage, though he had 
never, so he considered, gone too far. But 
the company had talked ; he had resolved 
to withdraw, and then, to his dismay, Marion 
had shown herself wildly unreasonable. The 
profession in which he was still a novice dis- 
pensed, he found, with many formalities usual 
in other circles ; he had followed, absorbed, 
made love to her; she had regarded their 
position as understood. His delicately given 
hint that the company coupled their names 
she had met, to his bewildered rage, with the 
simple supposition that they had better marry 
and so silence the chatter. To throw up his 
engagement — after the necessary explanation 
— had seemed the best way of cutting the 
knotj also, as it happened, there were other 
reasons why he was anxious, for a time, to 
leave England. Of course, tip re had been a 
scene, but he "had not expected her to be 
desperate enough to follow In mi to London. 
The interview she forced upon him was as 
unpleasant in his memory as her frantic 
accusations of falsity and desertion had been 
at the time, since, even under provocation, a 
gentleman does not 
strike a woman, and 
that he was sorely pro- 
voked but partially ex- 
cused the blow. 
But it had be' 
effectual : 
had neith' 
nor hear* ' 
again : 


Original from 



the first tier. Lady Casterton was no 
doubt in it — he was vaguely conscious of a 
blur of drapery and a glitter of jewels ; but he 
saw only Monica's brilliant face, vivid against 
the background of the great fan that she 
held unfurled behind her dark head — the 
attitude was a favourite one with her. The 
fact that her dress was pale blue was in itself 
a subtle compliment — it was his favourite 
colour. With the utterance of his opening 
words he determined that an opportunity to 
speak to her should not be waited for, but 
should be deliberately made to-morrow. 

At any time the knowledge of her presence 
would have spurred him to play his best ; 
to-night he was, he felt, capable of outdoing 
himself. One critic, equally distinguished 
and difficult, somewhat carpingly declaring 
the play which all London was flocking to 
see in its essence melodrama, had, while 
acknowledging that his treatment of his part 
was at its climax a wonderful piece of 
realistic acting, hinted that reserved force in 
the earlier scenes was entirely out of place in 
a piece of its kind. Falconer to-night let 
himself go. When the curtain fell and he 
left the stage it was with the consciousness 
that he had played as he had never done 
yet. A fellow-actor, a middle-aged man of 
experience, looked at him with some curiosity. 

" New reading ? " he asked, dryly. 

" Something of the sort, I suppose." 
Falconer laughed. "Like it?" 

" Like it ? Splendid, my dear boy — 
splendid ! " declared the other, warmly. 
" Always felt, to be candid, that your open- 
ing pace was a bit too slow. Always a 
danger, though, if it's set too quick, of a 
collapse before the finish, don't you know." 

" I sha'n't collapse," said Falconer, lightly. 

The wait between the acts was a long one, 
the next scene being an elaborate " set." 
He made the necessary change in his 
costume, dismissed his dresser, and sat down 
befor.e the letters on his table — to examine 
them would fill up the interval. He had 
glanced over two or three bills, followed by 
a couple of school-girlish appeals for his 
autograph, and had just, with a shrug, torn 
open a carefully sealing- waxed packet, 
obviously containing the inevitable play, 
when a swish of silk skirts sounded in the 
passage outside the half-open door. The 
dressing-room of the leading lady was the 
next room — Falconer turned his head as 
it halted. Had she come to remonstrate 
against his introduction of the " new read- 
ing " without having consulted or warned 
her ? Playing her own part with the unob- 

trusive perfection which the public had learnt 
to expect from one of its most gifted and 
popular actresses, she had taken the success 
that had quite eclipsed her own in the 
kindest way, but she had a sharp tongue 
and temper upon occasion. He rose. 

" Pray come in, Miss Cavendish," he 

A laugh came in answer. " Are you sure 
I may ? " a voice asked, gaily. 

The leap of Falconer's heart was not 
quicker than his movement to the door. 
Monica Thorold, on the threshold as he 
threw it open, met his astonished eyes with 
a sparkle of mirth in her own. 

" I suppose I may really enter ? " she 
questioned, lightly, giving him her hand. 
" And I hope, for the sake of your nerves, 
that you are less amazed than you look ! " 

" Amazed — yes. But a thousand times 
more honoured," declared Falconer, gallantly 
— he had always a ready tongue. 

"Oh, that's of course!" She laughed 
again, advancing a little, a radiant figure in 
her pale-blue dress, her long, ermine-lined 
cloak hanging from her shoulders, jewels 
shining about her throat and in her hair. 
Falconer had never found her so beautiful or 
admired her so intensely ; he had no taste 
for simplicity and charms unadorned. "Do 
you wonder how I got here? Or can you 
guess ? " 

" Miss Cavendish, perhaps " he began. 

" Exactly. She is so charming, isn't she ? 
I think her absolutely delightful ! So refresh- 
ing after the dreadfully stereotyped women 
one meets. We are quite friends, you know 
^-I'm afraid I have bored her dreadfully 
since we were introduced, though she is too 
kind to say so. Yes — Miss Cavendish. I 
have always longed to go behind the scenes, 
and to-night I sent her a note saying that I 
intended to invade the unknown regions and 
come to her dressing-room after the first act. 
But her husband was there ; he seemed to 
have something to tell her — I was afraid of 
being in the way. So, not choosing to have 
my trouble for nothing, I extended my in- 
vestigations, as you see." 

" You knew this was my room ? " 

" No. An official person (who seemed to 
wonder where upon earth I had dropped 
from) told me." She moved farther into the 
room, glancing about her. " I suppose this 
is a little bit improper, isn't it? I feel as if 
it ought to be." 

" I fear I^ady Gertrude would think so." 

" Mothepj^jnfflff.ycs. And figure, if you 
can, the consternation of my uncle and aunt 



from the country. I have left I^ady Caster ton 
trying to make up her mind what I shall take 
it into my head to do next. Really, I'm 
afraid I'm a little bit disappointed, you 

" Disappointed ? " 

11 In all this/' She waved her great white 
fan illustratively. " I don't know what 1 
expected, but something distinctively less 
comfortable and conventional. Don't forget 
that I am by way of scribbling a little. How 
do you know I didn't design to work you up 
into an article?" 

" I wish I could believe you thought me 
worth the trouble." 

" What, you, whose reticence is the despair 
of the interviewers ? " She laughed her airy, 
indolent laugh again, letting the fan fall, 
" Is that a play ? How delightful ! " 

" I'm afraid so. And probably the reverse 
of delightful/' 

"That means you have not read it. 
Rather merciless to condemn the unlucky 
dramatist first, don't you think ? " Her tone 
changed* "By the way, I hope you got my 
note ? I had quite meant to be at 
Mrs. Trenehard r s. I was so sorry ! 
And you, I suppose, were angry. 
Were you ?" 

She was tall, but he was the taller; 
she looked up at him. The glance, 
the little gesture that went with it, 
made Falconer's heart beat suddenly 
high \ there was more in her lifti - 
dark eyes than she had ever suffered 
him to read there yet. She wa.s 
a woman, proud by nature, by 
training used to holding herself 
well in hand, but she loved the 
man, and at the moment betrayed 
it as simply as the most unso- 
phisticated girl could have 
done. With the quicken- 
ing of his heart came a re- 
solution as swift — why 
should he wait for the 
making of a possible chance 
to-morrow when here was 
one ready to his hand ? 
The fact that time and 
place were unconventional 
would appeal to her rather 
than not ; he was cool 
enough to remember that. 
He caught her gloved hand. 

" I wish I thought — I 
wish I dared hope — that 
I had the right to be angry L 2 "he jaught he* 

He paused at her quick, ■ 

involuntary movement. Had he been too 
precipitate — a fool ? But there was no anger 
in her face, and she did not withdraw her 
hand " Monica, is it possible that — one 
day — -you will give it me?" 

" I think so," she answered, softly. 

Her brilliant eyes were soft as she looked 
at him now ; she was almost pale ; her lips 
trembled a little. The last half-a-dozen 
years had brought her at least as many 
suitors, but not one who had moved her. 
She had not expected his avowal, was, in- 
dued, quite unconscious of the self- betrayal 
that had been its occasion, but she did not 
resent being thus taken by surprise — perhaps 
in her heart rejoiced at it. Neither, perhaps, 
had she deemed him capable of words so 
passionate, spoken in a manner so ardent as 
those to which she listened now. It may 
have been that Falconer wondered at himself 
as he uttered them — self-forget fulness was a 
thing hardly possible to him at any time If 
ever a man's star soared ascendant it was his, 
he thought, exultantly. To win a woman 
who loved him was nothing— the veriest fool 




could achieve as much— but to win also at 
one stroke beauty, brains, birth, money ! His 
vanity fed full. It was Monica, not he, who 
first heard Miss Cavendish's approach out- 
side. She snatched up her fan and hurried 
to the door, throwing a " To-morrow " over 
her shoulder as she went. Following, 
Falconer was only in time to catch a vanish- 
ing glimpse of her blue dress at the end of 
the corridor. Meeting the actress's fine eyes 
he read and rather resented their surprise. 

" I thought Miss Thorold had gone back 
to her box," she said. 

" Miss Thorold was so gracious as to 
honour me," answered Falconer, lightly. 

" I see. I had not supposed you so 
intimate," she commented, with a touch of 

" No ? " He found he was' resenting the 
tone as much as the glance. Monica had 
not tied his tongue, he reflected — would not 
wish to tie it ; there was no reason why he 
should not announce now what would be 
public property to-morrow. And he was 
keenly desirous of giving his triumph voice. 
" Then perhaps I shall surprise you if I ask 
for your congratulations ? " he said, smiling. 

" You are engaged to her ? " she cried. 

" I have that honour." 

" It happened just now ? " 

" Exactly. I have your good wishes ? ,; 

" Of course." Miss Cavendish recovered 
herself and her natural pleasant cordiality. 
" My best good wishes," she said, smiling. 
"You are a lucky man in all ways, it seems/' 

" I consider myself more than lucky." 

u You have reason. Is it a secret ? " 

" Not at all. I am to see Mr. Thorold 
and Lady Gertrude to-morrow." 

" I wish you well through the interview." 

The band was playing the last bars of the 
interlude ; they were both in the scene as 
the curtain rose on the second act ; they 
spoke as they went. " By the way, you set 
the pace rather fast to-night." 

" Not to your inconvenience, I hope ? " 

" No ; I didn't mind once I had caught 
it. But don't overdo it, and forget to save 
yourself for the last act." 

" No fear of that. I'm on my mettle 
to-night ! I'll make the running and be in 
at the death," Falconer answered, gaily. 

He was as good as his word, easily, in 
evitably, for if he had been on his mettle 
before he was doubly so now. Monica 
Thorold, oblivious of her companion, kindling 
and glowing as she watched, merely echoed, 
in an intensified degree, the mood of the 
packed house— never since his creation of 

the character which had made him famous 
at a stroke had he carried his audience with 
him so entirely or moved it to an enthusiasm 
so complete. The recalls broke the record ; 
the cheering burst out again and again ; 
Lady Casterton, a calm person, stared as she 
saw the girl at her side take the cluster of 
roses from her corsage and fling them down 
upon the stage. Monica did not see her 
friend's look of wonder ; Falconer's eyes met 
hers as he took up the flowers and the curtain 
came down once more. They were still in 
his hand when, as quickly as might be, he 
went to his dressing-toom. Their interview 
had terminated too abruptly to please him, 
and the exact time at which he was to see 
her father to-morrow had been left unsettled. 
A note making the necessary suggestions and 
asking for a reply early in the morning could 
be taken to her box during the last act. 
Outside the door Miss Cavendish's husband, 
evidently waiting, checked him. 

" I'm just off," he began — " I have an 
appointment. But I thought I must wait, 
Falconer, to congratulate you." 

"Congratulate me?" For the moment 
Falconer honestly misunderstood. " Oh — 
thanks — yes — it does seem going rather extra 
well to-night. House in good cue, I sup- 
pose," he said, carelessly. 

" Oh, the show ! '" cried the other. " My 
dear fellow, I don't mean that," he said, with 
a laugh. " Fact is, I haven't been in front. 
You know what women are when there's 
any question of a marriage. My wife seized 
the first chance to tell me of your engage- 
ment to Miss Thorold. Best congratulations 
— if it's a fact, as I suppose it is." 

" Very much a fact, I'm proud to say. 
Thanks, old man," said Falconer. 

The other nodded, going off down the 
corridor, and he turned into the room, to 
check himself, half-way across it, with an 
irrepressible exclamation as he let the roses 
fall. Under the full glare of the electric 
light, his whole aspect, expression, attitude 
at once singularly attentive and singularly 
composed, there faced him the sunburnt, 
elderly man with the sturdy figure and the 
thick white hair who had followed and almost 
accosted him on his way to the theatre. As 
he halted, with a sense of disconcertment so 
strange that he wondered at it, swift as it was, 
the other spoke, withdrawing a pace. 

" I surprise you, Mr. Falconer," he said, 

"Why — er — yes. I — I thought the room 
was emptyitjir 
UMVS§*tft 0FttK*E*M intrusion " 



" My dear sir, not at all ! " exclaimed 
Falconer, For the moment he had stam- 
mered, so strong was that odd feeling ; now 
he recovered himself easily and gracefully. 
His manner was, he knew, one of his most 
valuable and 
assets ; he had 
cultivated it as 
assiduously as 
any other part 
of his art, and 
just now he 
was in his best 
mood and 
humour "Not 
at all/' he said, 
pleasantly, " I 
am entirely at 
your service — 
as I should 
have been, I 
assure you, 
earlier in the 
evening. J 

'You knew 
that I followed 
you ? 7i 

"I observed 
it — yes — and 
for a moment 
was in some 
doubt as to 
whether I 
should or 
should not 
speak." He 
smiled, "I may add that your appear- 
ance is almost as well known to me 
as mine can be to you. I have a good 
memory for faces, and you have 
honoured us, I think, with more than 
one visit since the run of the piece began*" 

"With several. I had long been curious 
to see you. Having done so once, I was 
more than interested in doing so again/' 

" Uncommonly good of you to say so. 
Pray sit down. You won't think me dis- 
courteous for mentioning that, with the best 
will in the world I can only give you a 
limited time ? By the way, I have been 
* puzzling myself as to who our mutual friend 
may be. In spite of my good memory for 
faces, I can't, though his is familiar, recollect 
his name." 

* l A quite insignificant person, Mr. Falconer 
— as much so as myself, There are few of 
us fortunate enough to find, like you, that 
his name is a household word/' 

" Awfully kind of you to say so/' Falconet 
murmured, perfunctorily. 

" Not at all. It is a matter of fact. You 
are a most fortunate man." He paused. 
" May I add that, the door having been ajar 
just now, I could not 
avoid overhearing that 
you are even more so 
than I had supposed 
you ? 1 have seen Miss 
Thorofd. I had 
heard her name 
associated with 
yours, and was 
curious in con- 
sequence. But 
I did not sup- 
pose, before to- 
night, that you 
would be suc- 
cessful in your 
suit to her. * . * 
A play, I think? 
Sent for your 
reading, and in 
hope of your 
acceptance, of 
course ? " 

He had taken 
no notice of the 
offered chair, 
and had not, 
beyond his first 
step of with- 
drawal, stirred 
hand or foot. 
Now, as he 
moved to the 
table, glancing 
down at the 
parcel of MS. at 
which Monica 
had looked, Falconer's involuntary sensation 
of annoyance at the mention of her name 
subsided into one of amusement The man, 
unpolished as his manner was, certainly did 
not mean to be offensive ; to indulge his 
curiosity would most likely be at once the 
easiest and quickest way of getting rid of 
him* He followed. 

"A play, without doubt," he said, with a 
laugh* (i 1 should be afraid to say with how 
many efforts of the ambitious and amateur 
playwright I have been bombarded in the 
last few weeks. It may be placed to my 
credit that I have absolutely read several. 
And, however the others may differ from 
them, we may talke it \m granted that they 
are identip^i^fthifcf ^^p? ^ Cffl ^^p me with 




what their authors are no doubt pleased to 
consider as grand a chance in the final act as 
I am enjoying at present," 

" You mean a death scene ? " 

" Exactly. Poison, dagger, or bullet — one 
of the three is my fate as the curtain falls. 
Of the former, some preparation of prussic 
acid — the sort of thing from which I shall 
expire presently — is, perhaps, the favourite, 
although in one especially lurid effort I 
succumb to strychnine after effective tetanic 
convulsions. That is one of the drawbacks 
attached to making a hit in a certain direc- 
tion ; you are supposed capable of doing 
nothing else. I am doomed to die on the 
stage, it appears." 

" By your own hand, of course ? " 

" Oh, yes — that's essential. From the 
front, it seems, a murder is not half such good 
business as a suicide." 

He laughed again as he carelessly fluttered 
the leaves of the manuscript and threw it 
down. Watching him, his visitor once more 
drew a step back. 

"You have a large hand, Mr. Falconer," 
he observed, deliberately. "Clenched, it 
must be heavy ! n 

There was more in the words than their 
blunt irrelevance ; a subtle something in 
their tone turned them into an insult as gross 
as a blow in the face. Falconer, with his 
start and stare, crimsoned as though he had 
received one. Instinctively he raised his 
hand, and in a flash the other caught the 

"Marion Rainsford is my daughter!" he 

Falconer's released hand dropped to his 
side. In the moment of dead silence that 
followed it seemed to him that the air of the 
room grew colder. 

"Marion Rainsford is my daughter," the 
other repeated. " I desire — as I have done 
for three years — to express my sense of the 
blow with which you took your farewell of 
her. I say again — your clenched hand must 
be heavy ! " 

Falconer stood motionless in a bewilder- 
ment of hot fury and cold dismay. That 
this thing should have happened now ! Good 
Heaven, if it reached her ears, how might 
it not affect Monica? And there were her 
people ! What did the man want or intend ? 
He made a desperate effort to pull himself 
together — the lamest words he could stammer 
would be a better answer than silence to the 
fixed, waiting face whose calmness, he felt, 
was more sinister and deadly than rage. 

"I — can't excuse myself/' he began, 

hoarsely. " There is nothing to be urged in 
extenuation of a thing of which I am bitterly 
ashamed — of which I have always been 
bitterly ashamed. The fact that I was 
carried away by a moment's passion, and 
was — was provoked, does not excuse me. 
I acknowledge that, fully acknowledge it. I 
have always deeply regretted it, as I have 
that — that your daughter misunderstood me, 
my — my ideas, my intentions. But let me 
entreat you to believe that — that beyond a 
mere flirtation " 

" Quite unnecessary. I am aware that 
you broke her heart with all possible pro- 

" She — misunderstood," Falconer repeated. 
That he should stand as he did stand, 
stumbling through these banal excuses, in- 
furiated him ; but the man must somehow be 
conciliated, quieted, though at the expense 
of his own humiliation. Was it a question 
of money — of money's equivalent ? He 
caught at that. " If I can in any way do 
anything — if it lies in my power to assist 
your daughter in her profession " 

" My daughter is in an institute for the 
insane, Mr. Falconer. And she will remain 
there, a hopeless lunatic, until the day she 
dies. For which, in addition to the blow 
you struck her, I tender you my thanks. 
You might have played your game with many 
women, doubtless, and done little harm ; my 
girl was made of more delicate stuff. She 
recovered from the illness — physically — 
which followed your desertion as she is now, 
and so she will remain. It may flatter your 
vanity to know that she has not, even in her 
present state, forgotten you — she is usually 
quiet and happy when allowed to wear the 
wedding-dress in which she expects to marry 
you. But there are other times when she is 
terrified and tries to hide, fearing that as you 
struck her once you may, when you come, 
strike her again. She clung round my neck 
yesterday, begging me to save her from that, 
and to tell you not to be angry. . . . There 
have been times when I have been very 
impatient for to-day." 

Rainsford's voice had not once risen above 
its monotonously level tone or fallen beneath 
it, but no change could have carried with it 
quite the same relentless weight. Once more 
it seemed to Falconer that the air of the 
room grew colder. But he was recovering 
himself now. After all, what, at worst, could 
the man do ? It was only his devilish, 
passionless composure that had for the 
moment upsptn feltfi nerves and made a fool 
of him, ERS | T y 0F MICHIGAN 



"I am shocked," he began, "inexpressibly 
shocked at what you tell me. I will say no 
more, since I fear you will credit no expres- 
sions of sorrow or self-reproach from me. I 
will not even suggest that I cannot be justly 
held responsible for your daughter's sad state. 
But suffer me to add that if you are — pardon 
me — poor, and will allow me to offer M 

"Nothing ! You will pay your debt, Mr, 
Falconer, but not in that coin/* 

** You mean, of course, that you will tell 
this story to Miss Thorold, Well, it will 
distress her ; it may cause a breach between 
usj but I remind you that she is a 


woman of the world, and that being so 
she B 

u I have no idea of troubling Miss 

" Then, what do you mean ? Why did 
you follow me tonight? I must tell you, 
Mr. Rainsford, to speak plainly, that I am 
not to be terrorized or bullied. Who was 
the man with you, and why " 

He stopped — stopped dead ym be 

fell back a pace Rainsford advanced as far 
towards him. 

" Your memory for faces has asserted 
itself, I think, Mr. Falconer," he said, 

Falconer caught at the table edge, with a 
fallen, livid face ; his eyes fixed in a haggard 

u I see you remember, A prominent police- 
officer's face is generally fairly familiar, though 
less so, no doubt, than a popular actor's." 

Falconer's eyes shifted to where Monica 
Thorolds fallen roses made a spot of pink 
upon the carpet— there was no other change 
in him, Rainsford went on, 

" When my girl came to me,' 
he said, with the same absolute, 
deliberate composure, " frantic, 
bearing the mark of that 
blow of yours, I should, had 
I obeyed my first impulse, 
have flogged and flung you 
into the gutter, satisfying 
myself with that poor re- 
venge as best I might. But 
I did not obey it ; I have 
always been patient. I 
waited. Longer than I had 
thought to do — much 
longer; a poor man is 
handicapped in many ways. 
There is a secret in most 
lives, w T e are told — I re- 
solved to find yours. When 
I began to wonder what 
had been your reason for 
quitting England when you 
broke with Marion does not 
matter, or why — perhaps I 
was curious as to what had 
been the source of the 
money I had discovered 
you to possess - — I did 
And I know," 
Falconer's chest rose with a great 
gasp of breath ; he shivered as though 
the room were very cold, 

"There is no need to go into 
details — you must remember, as I 
have gathered them all. Your fraud 
and forgery were cleverly executed ; you 
covered your traces with consummaie 
cunning, I can hardly wonder either 
that no suspicion fell upon you or that 
an innocent man nearly suffered in your 
place. When he escaped and the whole 
thing appeared forgotten, I suppose you 
thought yourself safe.- fn returning, as, but for 




criminals, you left one weak spot, and I found 
it. The case against you is absolutely com- 
plete — your conviction a certainty ; there is 
no possible loophole of escape for you once 
the warrant for your arrest is executed. And 
— were it in my power to grant it, which it is 
not — you had better, Mr. Falconer, whimper 
to wind or fire for mercy than to me ! " 

Falconer made a stumbling step forward 
and back again. There was no change in 
his haggard stare. 

" It would have been executed when I 
followed you this evening, but that the idea 
of this interview occurred to me — and of 
something more. I gave the officer his 
instructions in accordance — he is waiting 
within sight of the stage door. You will be 
arrested as you leave the theatre— if you elect 
to leave it." 

There was a silence. Falconer dropped 
into a chair. Rainsford drew a pace nearer. 

" I chanced to think of Miss Thorold, and 
the possibility, at least, of her attachment to 
you. It occurred to me that I might spare 
her, in part. The whole story of your degra- 
dation and disgrace will be public property 
to-morrow — if you leave the theatre." 

Falconer's lips shaped a soundless question. 
Rainsford drew a tiny box from an inner 
pocket, took something from it, and put it 
down upon the table — a little, greenish pellet. 
" You understand ? " he asked. 

Falconer nodded. His face was the colour 
of clay. Rainsford smiled. 

" I was a traveller in my young days," he 
said, quietly, "and penetrated into many 
wild and savage places, from which it might 
have been well to possess such a means of 
— escape. Possibly I should not have 
thought of it but for your great death scene 
upon the stage. It suggested substitution. 
You follow me ? " 

Falconer made a gesture. 

"It is quick and quite painless, and it 
leaves no trace. Nothing is commoner than 
sudden heart failure, as we all know. You 
know what must happen if you leave the 
theatre. In your place, I think I should not 
leave it." 

He went out. Falconer's face fixed again 
into its haggard stare ; he sat looking — always 
looking — at the little pellet upon the table. 
He had not stirred when presently footsteps 
sounded outside, and he staggered to his 
feet, closing his hand upon it as his dresser 
came in. 

"The gentleman said he had particular 
business with you, sir, and that you would 
ring when you were ready for me," he said, 

Vol xxxiiL— 36. 

hurriedly. " I didn't dare wait any longer — 
the curtain will go up in a moment now." 

" I am ready," said Falconer. 

He went out, pausing in the corridor before 
a great mirror. His was always a pale, im- 
passive face ; there was little difference in it ; 
his heart was beating almost normally again ; 
his hand, as for an instant he slipped it into 
his waistcoat pocket, was nearly steady. A 
player who had utterly lost the game had 
best take his defeat quietly ; a man absolutely 
trapped was a fool to struggle. A way of 
escape from horror, degradation, disgrace 
unspeakable had been provided for him ; he 
was dully thankful for it — he would take it 
— presently, It was a vague relief that 
Monica would never know ; had he been 
able to endure all else, her scorn would have 
been unbearable. But though she had no 
existence he would rather die a score of 
deaths than face the arrest, the felon's dock, 
the trial, conviction, and punishment — all 
that awaited him — if he left the theatre. As 
for a moment he halted in the wings, mechani- 
cally waiting for his cue, a fellow-actor accosted 

" You look a bit done up, Falconer ; but, 
by Jove, you've knocked 'em to-night ! " he 
said, cordially. " By the way, best congratu- 
tions. For good all-round luck you take 
some beating ! " 

" Thanks — yes — you're right," said 

" Rather ! Here comes your cue. I say, 
we shall see it in the fashionable intelligence, 
I suppose, eh ? " 

"There will be something in the papers 
to-morrow," said Falconer. 

He answered his cue, and was on the 
stage. The words of his part, he found, 
came to his lips quite easily ; moreover, he 
was presently aware that he was playing this 
last act as he had never played it before. 
But he seemed to stand at an incalculable 
distance, watching himself. Once he glanced 
up at the left-hand box on the first tier and 
saw a rapt, eager face shining out of the 
gloom. That was at the end, when, but for 
himself, the stage was empty, and the whole 
house hung tense and breathless, waiting for 
the famous death scene. He laughed as he 
felt for the little pellet — when one thought of 
it, it was really funny. Funnier still to think 
of what would be in the papers to-morrow. 
Somewhere in the audience an hysterical 
girl laughed shrilly, overwrought, as he lifted 
his hand to his mouth. 

He reeled against n table, panting, gasping ; 

his W^Mth^™ 1 God ' 



what had he done ? Fool, idiot, madman — 
this was death ! Disgrace, dishonour, degra- 
dation, what were they all weighed against 
life — life? He swung in a vast fiery wheel j 
a giant grip clutched and crushed him ; he 
struggled to 
scream as he 
writhed and 
fought, striving 
to drag it away 

— life, life — 
only life ! 

Tb£ fiery 
wheel burst 
asunder; its 
humming frag- 
ments spun 
away into a 
great blackness 

— the whole 
world heaved 
upward, rocked 
and crashed 
together. He 
dropped, and 
the curtain 

The curtain 
fell, and the 
theatre rang 
with applause, 
in response 
to which the 
favourite actor 

— " with a true 
respect for art 
we would we 
could see 
imitated," the critics had 
declared— always consistently 
declined to appear. The 
general opinion was that the 
great death scene was a finer effort than ever ; 
though two or three women, looking pale and 
perturbed as they struggled into their wraps, 
complained that the new style of playing it 
was quite too realistic absolutely it had 
frightened them. Monica Thorold was not 
pale. Her brilliant face wore a flush of 
delight as she turned to her companion. 

11 Magnificent, wasn't it ? ?J she said. " He 
has sur[>assed himself to-night. I wonder 
why he altered the reading of the last act so 
entirely ? I must ask. But it was awfully 
effective. By the way, dear — I dare say you 

w T ay 

X be surprised — I am going to mam" 

he theatre was still ringing with tzheers 
hand-clappings as Rainsford made his 
out into the air — he had scarcely waited 
for the curtain to go 
down. He stopped as 
he reached the corner 
from which he could 
see the stage d<K>r and 
the motor waiting 
before it — he was feel 
ing a little 
sick. As he 
did so a man, 
in the dress 
of a commis- 
sionaire, came 
darting by t al- 
most striking 
against his 
shoulder. In 
the lamplight 
his face 
showed white 
and scared, as 
he rushed up 
to a policeman 
standing on 
the kerb, 

"A doctor! 1 ' 
he cried. 
w Where is 
the nearest? 
Quick ! ■ 

The con- 
stable, stolid 
and self-pos- 
sessed, pointed 
silently — the 
other ran, 
Rainsford had 
recovered him- 
self now ; he sauntered across towards an 
adjacent narrow turning. As he reached it 
a figure emerged from the shadow, and he 
spoke without turning his head. 

" I don't think you will lie wanted," he 
said. "1 fancy our man has — got away. 11 

" Got away ! " the officer ejaculated. ** But, 
sir," he protested, M his motor is waiting, and 
I and my man have not, for the last hour, 
taken our eyes off the door. Unless there is 

another exit from the stage " 

"There was one other," said Rainsford, 


by Google 

Original from 


Problems Science Has Almost Solved 


By Arthur T. Dolling. 

CIENCE," said Professor 
Huxley, "is frequently on 
the brink of some great 
truth, but it is left to chance 
to disperse the vapours which 
obscure it." How true this 
is was never so well exemplified as at the 
outset of the twentieth century. We are 
actually hovering on the very margin of the 
promised land, so that many who are not 
seers, in the metaphysical sense, may pierce 
the mist. Today in Europe and North 
America, in chemistry, in biology, in physics, 
in astronomy, in geology, a thousand eager 
brains are at work and a number of interesting 
problems are almost solved. In the present 
article we will attempt to touch the most 
important subjects of intellectual research— 
to foreshadow* a few of the inventions or 
innovations, now dimly seen, which the next 
few years will bring forth, 

A problem which has been engaging the 
wits of practical philosophers for the 
last quarter of a century concerns the 
utilization of solar heat. Nothing is more 
important to the world than the supply of 
heat for economic and industrial purposes. 
Science has learnt to prevent the dissipation 
of cold, and ice has long been produced, 
with little trouble, in the heart of the 
Tropics. But the conservation of caloric 
has so far baffled the inventor, although he 
sees the evil day approaching when it will 
be of the utmost moment to the inhabitants 
of this planet As Stephenson said, it is 
really the sun which drives all our engines, 
though at second hand, for what is coal but 
stored sun- power ? According to the late 
Professor Langley, from every square yard 
of earth exposed perpendicularly to the sun's 
rays there could be derived more than one 
horse- power. Thus in less than the area of 
London the noontide heat is sufficient on a 
moderately sunny day to drive all the steam- 


engines in the world. One of the first to put 
this idea to practical test was M. Mouchot, 
who constructed a solar engine, looking like 
a gigantic inverted umbrella. The jxirabolie 
reflector concentrated the heat on a boiler in 
the focus, and drove a steam-engine with it. 
Mr* Ericsson invented an improved form, but 
the difficulty hitherto has been to lessen the 
cost of utilizing the heat. 

"I hope some day," declared Mr. Tesla, 
"with an apparatus I have invented so to 
harness the rays of the sun that that body 
will operate every machine in our factories, 
propel every train and carriage in our streets, 
and do all the cooking in our homes, as well 
as furnish all the light that man may need by 
night as well as by day. It will, in short, 
replace all wood and coal as a producer of 
motive power and heat and electric-lighting," 
His idea is simple enough, consisting, as it 
does, of concentrating the heat of the sun on 
a focal point by a series of mirrors and 
magnifying glasses, and the great heat so 
produced is directed upon a glass cylinder 
filled with water. This latter is chemically 
prepared, so that it rapidly evapo- 
rates into steam. The steam is made 
to operate a steam-engine, which, in turn, 
generates electricity. This electricity is 
received by storage batteries, and a vast 
and cheap supply is generated for all 
purposes. With thousands of these sun- 
stations dotted about here and there, the 
whole industrial problem would seem to be 
solved for mankind. 

In the invention described by Professor 
Tesla the steam from the solar generator 
passes to a steam cylinder and works the 
piston which connects with the air-pump, 
which, being of smaller diameter than the 
steam cylinder, pumps air into a reservoir 
at considerably higher pressure than steam. 
The dynamo is worked by a small engine, 
which draws its supply of compressed air from 




Science is ex- 
pectant ly awaiting 
the discovery of 
greater deposits of 
radium than have 
yet been vouch* 
safed to the many 
seekers after this 
astonishing sub- 
stance. In a recent 
number of Le 
Figaro M. Des 
Lauriers, a friend 
of the late Pro- 
fessor Curie, 
declares his belief 
in the impending 
apparition in some 
obscure mine of a 
glittering store- 
house of radium 
sufficient to revolu- 
tionize the whole attitude of science towards 
this, the greatest marvel of the twentieth 

"To some humble miner, working with 


the reservoir, The difficulty at present is the 
great cost of storing the batteries and keeping 
them stored ; but this we shall discuss later, 
Professor Kerthelot has spoken of electricity 
generated by the perpetual mobility 
of the ocean. If we could thus 
derive a cheap source of electricity 
for heating and mechanical power, 
the problem would bo solved, but 
most men of science believe that 
it is to the sun and sun power that 
mankind must look in^the future. 
Sir William Siemens has estimated 
the solar effective temperature at 
not less than three thousand degrees 
centigrade, a rich bank on which 
England may draw when her pre- 
sent coal supply is exhausted. "Who- 
ever finds the way to make industri- 
ally useful the vast sun-power now 
wasted on the deserts of North 
Africa or the shores of the Red 
Sea will effect a greater change in 
men's affairs than any conqueror 
in history has done*" 

Another interesting scheme of 
Tesla's is artificial daylight, which 
he claims to have perfected. It 
consists of glass halls, without wires 
of any kind, giving forth a brilliant 
but not glaring light, and perfectly 
harmless to handle. Without specu- 
lating on the secret of this dis- 
covery, tt may be said that several 
new artificial Hluminants are doubt- 
less impending in the laboratories 

ofscience - digitized by Google 





pick and shovel for his daily bread, may be 
reserved a discovery of the utmost moment 
to mankind. The possibilities of radium are 
immense ; at present we can only dimly 
guess at one-tenth of what it can do," 

On this T however, English men of science 
are inclined to take a conservative view. Sir 
William Ramsay, fnr instance, writes to me 
to say that u Radium is always associated 
with uranium ; there are a good many 
deposits of pitchblende, the ore of uranium , 
but, although the latter is used for colouring 
glass and china, there is no great demand for 
it And it would hardly pay to work over 
for radium without being able to dispose 
profitably of the uranium oxide. Hence 
the high price of radium. If a great demand 
were to rise for uranium, the cost of radium 
would be much reduced," 

In his British Association address in 1898 
Sir William Oookes pointed out the tendency 
of the earth's population to outstrip the 
production of wheat. fl Starvation/' he said, 
"may be averted through the laboratory, 
Before we are in the grip of actual dearth 
the chemist 
will step in and 
postpone the 
day of famine/ 1 
He added that 
the fixation of 
at mospheric 
nitrogen, there- 
fore, is one of 
the great dis- 
coveries await- 
ing the inge- 
nuity of the 
chemists. Its 
artificial pro- 
duc t ion is 
clearly within 
view, and by 
its aid the land 
devoted to 
wheat can be 
brought up to 
thirty bushels 
per acre standard. Since 
ment French, German, 


this pronounce- 
and American 
chemists and engineers have been labouring 
at the problem, which it is now claimed has 
been satisfactorily solved by two Norwegian 
chemists and engineers, It is said that 
they have discovered a process of extract- 
ing nitric acid from the atmosphere in such 
a way as to make it available for com- 
mercial, industrial, and agricultural purposes. 

At present one million tons of nitrate of soda 
are annually exported from Chili, at from fifty 
to sixty pounds per ton. Twenty million 
tons are far less than is required ; and all 
this may readily be extracted from the air 
in the neighbourhood of London alone. 

Never, doubtless* in the century and a 
quarter of aeronautics has so much activity 
been shown as now. Although baffled by 
the balloon and puzzled by the aeroplane, 
mankind seems finally resolved to navigate 
the air, and the means by which it may attain 
this end appear to-day reasonably clear. The 
latest form of air -ship, designed by Mr, 
Kdward Applin, combines many of the 
advantages of M + Santos- 1) union t's and the 
Messrs, Phillips's invention, and the only point 
now to be determined is to what degree the 
air-ships of the next twelvemonth can be 
depended upon for practical locomotion. 

Civil engineers view with intense interest 
the new movement for special motor roads to 
be constructed between various points in the 
kingdom, and entertain no doubt whatever 
that viatory traffic will become completely 

within the en- 
suing decade. 
What is certain 
is that the road- 
maps of Eng^ 
land will be- 
come obsolete, 
although the 
of new direct 
main roads, 
" as the crow 
flies," will re- 
sult in the pre- 
servation of 
the picturesque 
ancient high- 
ways which 
wind so plea- 
santly through 
the land, and 
which the 

motor-car has threatened to 

From across the Atlantic comes the 
announcement of another epoch making dis- 
covery by the great American wizard, Mr. 
Thomas Alva Edison. This time it takes 
the shape of a practically indestructible 
storage battery, which, it is claimed, will 
travel a hundred thousand miles before it is 

"flwffistrt tfisfelliiyir tMins sam « 



Ml.K foil! 

two hundred dollars, will provide the pur- 
chaser with motive-power that will need no 
renewal for fifteen years. 

44 1 never could believe," remarked the 
great inventor, "that Nature, so prolific of 
resources, could provide only lead as a 
material ingredient of the battery. I have 
always found her ready for any emergency, 
and based on this confidence, which she has 
never betrayed, I communed diligently with 
her." After experimenting with numerous 
other substances, Mr. Edison hit at length 
upon cobalt as a substitute for lead. But, 
cobalt being one of the rare metals, the 
problem was not yet solved. So he scoured 
the country to find this metal in sufficient 
quantities to warrant its use, and discovered 
an abundance of it in 
Canada, Wisconsin, 
Oregon, and Kentucky. 
Then, to use the in 
ventor's expressive phrase, 
he knew he was all right. 
A friend of Mr. Edison's 
tried a few cells on a two- 
ton machine a while ago, 
and found that as motive- 
power it was reasonably 
successful, although in no 
competition with speed. 

" But I am not an auto- 
mobile manufacturer, and 
I have thought only of 
solving the problem of 
street traffic, which is 
serious in all the great 
cities of the world," says 

The actual cost of re 
charging the new battery 
is a matter of some three 
halfpence per cell. 

Space might have been 
found here for a prediction 
as to photography by wire ; but this 
invention has already been made. Colour 
photography is yet, however, still a puzzle 
to chemistry. 

From time to time new patent fuels are 
announced, but none has excited the 
interest of that which it is declared has been 
invented by Professor Daniel Drawbaugh, 
the American inventor and rival to Professor 
Bell. It is a compound consisting of 
chemicals and fibrous matter, producing the 
same heat and costing only half the price of 
coal. It is easy to see that Drawbaugh fuel, 
at eight or ten shillings a ton, would quickly 

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work a revolution in the coal industry. 
What scientists have been long seeking for — 
the profitable utilization of earth and saw- 
dust — may be found to be the basis of this 
new discovery. 

From coalless and woodless fires in the 
near future we may turn to contemplate the 
printing of books and newspapers without 

Not long ago Professor R. K. Duncan 
wrote : " Cellulose (wood pulp) is, within 
certain limits, extraordinarily sensitive. A 
certain substance known as diazo-primuline 
is but slowly affected by light ; but place it 
upon a cellulose paper and it is (for unknown 
reasons) spontaneously decomposed by sun- 
light. From this fact arises 
a process of ' positive ' 
photographic printing. 
Again, cellulose seems, to 
a certain extent, a con- 
ductor of electricity. 
Attach a coin to the posi- 
tive end of a battery and 
a sheet of moist paper to 
the negative end ; press 
the coin on the paper, and 
after suitable development 
an image is formed. Or, 
again, reverse the polarity 
and press the coin on the 
paper. No result is appa- 
rent, for the image is 
latent ; but, even after the 
lapse of months, treat it 
with a silver salt and 
developer, and there will 
at once be seen the image 
of the coin. It is by no 
means impossible that this 
little fact will lead to a 
method of electrical print- 
ing without ink." 
The experiment has been frequently tried 
in the case of coins — one of the first 
was, I believe, achieved in the Univer- 
sity of London laboratory ; and thence it 
was but a step to the printing of a page of 
type. So far as is known, the first example 
to be reproduced is herewith shown. The 
experimenter, Mr. E. K. Davenport, states 
that " the constituents for the blackening of 
the portions impressed by the metal were 
contained in the paper, which was made 
from Newfoundland pulp." Plainly the in- 
vention is far from being perfect, from a 
commercial standpoint ; but what a field 
for economy -in n ihf .-.-production of news- 








papers alone such a discovery opens to view ! 
It is said that three-halfpence worth of 
solution will saturate a hundredweight of 
paper. If different solutions are found to 
produce different colours under the electric 
shock the doom of the ink-makers is amongst 
the portents in the sky* 

Mechanical photography, too, is almost 
within reach— that is to say, the production 
of block illustrations direct 
from Nature. We an: told thai <l^ *$? 

when a glass, metal, or 

of producing photographic pictures "mecha- 
nical photography," By this process every 
man can become his own photo engraver. 

It has been known for some time that 
electricity was of value in viticulture, but it 
has not yet been availed of to any extent, or 
on any considerable scale. When the late 
Sir Frederick B ram well was told that certain 
grapes presented to him by Sir W, Siemens 
had been subjected to elec- 
tricity during their growth, 
"Ah, I thought so/ 1 observed 
Sir Frederick ; " they had 
to me a taste of currents." 
" E 1 ec t r oc u 1 1 u re ' J is now, 
however, under the direc- 
tion of M. Adolphe Barde* 
entering on a new stage in 
Switzerland. Not only has 
it been found that a high 
voltage improves the growth 
of the vine, but also kills 
thephylloxera disease. The 
Fuchs method has also been 
applied to Apple trees, and 
one true! near Dieppe, has 
given astonishing results 
over its fellows, Here, then, 
may be a means of reviving 
our fields and orchards and 
making the desert blossom 
as the rose. 


kLBCrffOCl'LTUkE fJK t" H£ *-" u JUSK — " A " AND " B " 
fcNTfckiNc; it at "a 11 FLOWS THROUGH soil and 

plate capable of waist 
ing a dull red heat is 
coated with an amor- 
phous film of some 
metallic solution and 
exposed to light under 
an ordinary photogra- 
phic negative a curious 

change takes place which may be most simply 
described as a wandering of some of the 
material from beneath the shadows into the 
light parts, so that on subsequently burning 

off the organic 

matter (resinous 

varnishes * were 

mostly used) a pic- 
ture results, faith- 
fully reproducing 

the finest detail of 

the original sub- 

ject. As no specific 

chemical action 

can be detected, 

Herr Alefeld 

names this method 


Turning now to the 
domain of biological and 
physiological science, there 
is no doubt great 
discoveries are impending. 
Perhaps the most interest- 
ing and momentous dis- 
covery of all concerns the 
capacities of the brain, so 
much of which is still densely obscure. Is 
there a special seat of intelligence or 
intellect in the brain ? So far science says 

functions and 


©flmnswwE: ™ ts-' m,H0 ' 






not, Intelligence and will, it says, have 
no local habitation distinct from the sensory 
and motor substrata of the cortex. The 
relation between brain and mind is not 
yet found. " But," writes Professor Fcrrier, 
"there are grounds for 
believing that a high develop- 
ment of certain regions will 
be found associated with 
special faculties of which the 
regions in question are the 
essential basis-" 

I)r, C W. Saleeby prophe- 
cies that a time will come 
when we shall know 
precisely m what part of 
the brain what we now 
call genius lies. il The great 
musician, (or instancy will 
bequeath his brains for 
microscopic examination, so 
that the auditory centre 
wherein some C minor sym- 
phony {Beethoven or Brahms, 
which you please) or Vurspiel 
to l Parsifal ' was concealed 
might be compared unto the 
microscope of the auditory 
centre of, say, the good 
musical critic, that of the 
patron of musical comedy, 
and so by slow degrees down 
to the brain of the unfortu- 
nate who recognises the 
National Anthem by the circumstance that 
men doff their hats thereat." While Dr. 
Saleeby declares that nothing is yet known 
of these things, he believes that a more 
advanced knowledge will enable the visitor 
to the British Museum to gaze down a row 
of microscopes wherein are compared 
sections of grey 
matter showing the 
cell development of 
eminent persons. 
Thus the future may 
show us a section 
of the cortex of, say, 
the President of the 
Royal Society side 
by side with a person 
of low mental cali- 
bre, so that the 
initiated may see at 

once the cause of the professor's " braini- 
ness " and the other's incapacity for abstract 








**" :? & 



with C¥i.i. FORMATION of the eirain 




THE VOWFLS "ou" AMP *' tH*" 

The recent discussion on spelling 


has demonstrated anew how dependent the 
world has been hitherto on arbitrary symbols, 
as alphabetical letters, for the expression 
and preservation of its ideas. One written 
language may have an advantage over 
another, but none bears any 
fixed relation to speech as 
spoken. When the phono- 
graph was invented it seemed 
here was a method of anno- 
tating vocal sounds, but the 
fulfilment did not bear out 
the promise, for the characters 
on a phonograph cylinder 
may be said to be devoid of 
character. They are certainly 
not symbols which could be 
employed to represent the 
alphabet. A far closer ap- 
proximation to a system had 
previously been found in the 
** flame-pictures " of Koenig, 
the kaleidophone figures and 
the acoustic figures of 
Chladni, all being produced 
by the action of sound upon 
a flame, or on sand particles. 
But none of these dis- 
coveries has proved of any 
use as the basis of a philo- 
logical reform. There is 
another, however, which, if 
report be true, bids fair to 
revolutionize the whole 
alphabetical system of the world. It 
possesses this essential virtue: that from it 
there can be no appeal It is international. 
A symbol representing a sound in English 
represents the same sound in French or 
Russian or Chinese. Briefly, what Frofessor 
Otto Zorn claims to have invented is a 

species of tympanum 
sprinkled with alu- 
minium dust, the 
particles of which, 
under electrical 
stimulus, group 
themselves into cer- 
tain forms corre- 
sponding to various 
degrees of vibration. 
Thus, if the con- 
sonant B be spoken 
into the receiver 
affixed to the tympanum, the particles are set 
in motion and take on a definite form, from 
the outline of which an alphabetical character 
is derived. It is perfectly clear that the pro- 

L ■ ■ HI — ^— — «^^^^^^^— 



. J ' ■ - ! • - 1 


-*£ A:- 




■ ■.-,-. ^y.r 

«& = BA 



A=DA 1 


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L \ ■• - 


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r 1 " 

* 1 ■ * - 

'& = n^ 

£ = MA 


^ = CH/^ 


the atoms exhibit always the same forms 
answering to the same uttered sounds, the 
resultant alphabet would be as arbitrary as 
those already existing. This, it is understood, 
Professor Zorn claims to have achieved 
with certain consonants, noting, however, a 
variation in others; while he admits he has 
not been so successful with vowel sounds. 
The prospect opened out, however, by such 
a system is of enormous interest. It is 
equivalent to nothing less than the photo- 
graphy of speech. 

At a recent Library Association meeting 
something of a sensation was caused by the 
reading of a paper calling for a radical 
reform, not in the contents, but in the shape 
and aspect of the modern book. u The book 
is the one feature of dvilued life which in 
fifteen hundred years has undergone no 
change. There were big books at the 
beginning — there are big books now, folios 
and quartos, although fewer than then, but, 
big or little, they open in the same way, at 
the same side, stitched and covered the same, 
and are as cumbrous and unlovely as ever. 
Must the vehicles of the world's literature 
ever remain in the stage coach stage ? Has 
human ingenuity said its all when the flat- 
paged, side-bound book was invented?" 
Inspired by this, perhaps, a South African 
inventor, Mr. J. R. Cummings, has been 
at work upon a very novel and interest- 
ing form of " literary vehicle " (one hesitates 
about calling it a book), of which we give an 

Digitized by W)i 

Vol, w w>— 37. 

illustration, It is more 
nearly akin to the ancient 
scrolls of papyrus, actuated 
by an internal spring, which 
moves the printed sheet 
backwards or forwards at a 
pace regulated by the read- 
ing ability or convenience 
of the owner. A striking 
feature of the device is the 
index arrangement, by 
which any passage of the 
work, by a simple pressure 
on the index letter, can 
be brought instantly under 

All newspaper readers 
must have observed the 
tendency of the public 
prints within recent years 
to diminish in apparent 
area, while by no means 
diminishing in actual bulk. 
This leads to the belief that the near 
future will witness the newspaper and 
periodical more and more approaching the 
technical appearance of the book. Thirty 
years ago the eight-column daily journal, two 
and a half feet across, was no rarity. A few 
years hence we may see the Times in the 
format of the Westminster Gazette^ and the 
lalter journal in the guise of the present thin- 
paper classics — duodecimo and even sexto- 
decimo. And perhaps the only one who will 
bewail the reform will be the careful house 
wife mentioned by Dean Hole, who took in 
the Standard because it was * e so convenient 
for wrapping up a cabbage " ! 


1 1 " i 1 W h T "lt 1 1 P^i "iT IIE ir ° LtrM *■ 




^Lh, . aaaaj^O 

AI LOR MEN ain't wot you 
might call dandyfied as a 
rule/' said the night-watch- 
man, who had just had a 
passage of arms with a 
lighterman and been advised 
to let somebody else wc^h him and make a 
good job of It ; " they've got too much sense* 
They leave dressing up and making eyesores 
of theirselves to men wot ? ave never smelt 
salt water ; men wot drift up and down the 
riveT in lighters and get in everybody's way." 
He glanced fiercely at the retreating figure 
of the lighterman, and, turning a deaf ear to 
a request for a lock of his hair to patch a 
favourite doormat with, resumed with much 
vigour his task of sweeping up the litter. 

The most dressy sailor man I ever knew, 
he continued, as he stood the broom up in 
a corner and seated himself on a keg, was 
a young feller named Rupert Brown. His 
mother gave 'im the name of Rupert while 
his father was away at sea, and when he 
came 'orae it was too late to alter it. All 

Copyright, i^.byW.W. Jac&bi, 

that a man could do he did do, and Mrs. 
Brown J ad a black eye till J e went to sea agin. 
She was a very obstinate woman, though- 
like most of 'em— and a little over a year 
arter wards got pore old Brown three months' 
hard by naming 'er next boy Roderick 

Young Rupert was on a barge when I 
knew 'im fust, but be got tired of always 
'aving dirty hands arter a time, and went and 
enlisted as a soldier. I lost sight of J int for 
a while, and then one evening he turned up 
on furlough and come to see me, 

O* course, by this time J e was tired of 
soldiering, but wot upset 1m more than 
anything was always 'aving to be dressed the 
same and not being able to wear a collar and 
neck-tie. He said that if it wasn't for the 
sake of good old England, and the chance o* 
getting six months, he'd desert I tried to 
give 'im good advice, and, if I'd only known 
J ow I was to be dragged into it, I'd ha' given 
1m a lot more. 

As it 'appeaed he deserted the very next 

in ^ HWmW'^FttlCHIGAN 



arternoon. He was in the Three Widders at 
Aldgate, in the saloon bar — which is a place 
where you get a penn'orth of ale in a glass 
and pay twopence for it — and, arter being 
told by the barmaid that she had got one 
monkey at r ome, he got into conversation 
with another man wot was in there. 

He was a big man with a black moustache 
and a red face, and *is fingers all smothered 
in di'mond rings. He 'ad got on a gold 
watch-chain as thick as a rope, and a scarf- 
pin the size of a large walnut, and he had 'ad 
a few words with the barmaid on 'is own 
account. He seemed to take a fancy to 
Rupert from the fust, and in a few minutes 
he 'ad given 'im a big cigar out of a sealskin 
case and ordered 'ima glass of sherry wine. 

"Have you ever thought o' going on the 
stage?" he ses t arter Rupert *ad told 'im of 
his dislike for the Army. 

11 No/' ses Rupert, staring. 

" Vou s'prise me," ses the big man ; " you're 
wasting of your life by not doing so/' 

11 But I can't act," ses RuperL 

"Stuff and nonsense/ 
"Don't tell me. You've 
got an actor's face* I'm 
a manager myself, and 
I know, I don't mind 
telling you that I re- 
fused twenty- three men 
and forty - eight ladies 
only yesterday." 

" I wonder you don't 
drop down dead/' ses 
the barmaid, lifting up 
'is glass to wipe down 
the counter. 

The manager looked 
at her, and, arter she 'ad 
gone to talk to a gentle 
man in the next bar wot 
was knocking double 
knocks on the counter 
with a pint pot, he whis- 
pered to Rupert that she 
'ad been one of them. 

" She can't act a bit," 
he ses. " Now, look 
'ere ; I'm a business man 
and my time is valuable. 
I don't know nothing, 
and I don't want to 
know nothing ; but, if 
a nice young feller, like 
yourself, for example, 
was tired of the Army 
and wanted to escape } 
I've got one part left 

ses the big man. 

in my company that 'ud suit 'im down to 
the ground." 

" Wot about being reckernised ? " ses 

The manager winked at 'im. t( It's the 
part of a Zulu chief, ,T he ses, in a whisper, 

Rupert started. " But I should 'ave to 
black my face," he ses, 

" A little," ses the manager ; " but you'd 
soon get on to better parts — and see wot a 
fine disguise it is." 

He stood 'im two more glasses o' sherry 
wine, and, arter he *ad drunk 'em, Rupert 
gave way. The manager patted Im on the 
back, and said that if he wasn't earning fifty 
pounds a week in a year's time he'd eat his 
? ead : and the barmaid, wot 'ad come back 
agin, said it was the best thing he could do 
with it, and she wondered he 'adn ? t thought 
of it afore. 

They went out separate, as the manager 
said it would be better for them not to be 
seen together, and Rupert, keeping about a 
dozen yards behind, follered 'im down the 
Mile End Road. By and by the manager 





stopped outside a shop-window wot 'ad been 
boarded up and stuck all over with savages 
dancing and killing white people and hunting 
elephants, and, arter turning round and giving 
Rupert a nod, opened the door with a key 
and went inside. 

"That's all right," he ses, as Rupert 
follered 'im in. " This is my wife, Mrs. 
Alfredi," he ses, introducing 'im to a fat, red- 
'aired lady wot was sitting inside sewing. 
" She has performed before all the crowned 
'eads of Europe. That di'mond brooch she's 
wearing was a present from the Emperor of 
Germany, but, being a married man, he 
asked 'er to keep it quiet." 

Rupert shook 'ands with Mrs. Alfredi, and 
then her 'usband led 'im to a room at the 
back, where a little lame man was clean- 
ing up things, and told 'im to take his 
clothes off. 

" If they was mine," he ses, squinting at 
the fireplace, " I should know wot to do 
with 'em." 

Rupert laughed and slapped 'im on the 
back, and, arter cutting his uniform into 
pieces, stuffed it into the fireplace and pulled 
the dampers out He burnt up 'is boots and 
socks and everything else, and they all three 
laughed as though it was the best joke in 
the world. Then Mr. Alfredi took his coat 
off and, dipping a piece of rag into a basin 
of stuff wot George 'ad fetched, did Rupert 
a lovely brown all over. 

" That's the fust coat," he ses. " Now take 
a stool in front of the fire and let it soak 

He gave 'im another coat arf an hour 
arterwards, while George curled his 'air, and 
when 'e was dressed in bracelets round 'is 
ankles and wrists, and a leopard-skin over his 
shoulder, he was as fine a Zulu as you could 
wish for to see. His lips was naturally thick 
and his nose flat, and even his eyes 'appened 
to be about the right colour. 

" He's a fair perfect treat," ses Mr. 
Alfredi. "Fetch Kumbo in, George." 

The little man went out, and came back 
agin shoving in a fat, stumpy Zulu woman 
wot began to grin and chatter like a poll- 
parrot the moment she saw Rupert. 

" It's all right," ses Mr. Alfredi ; " she's 
took a fancy to you." 

" Is — is she an actress ? " ses Rupert. 

"One o' the best," ses the manager. 
" She'll teach you to dance and shy assegais. 
Pore thing ! she buried her 'usband the day 
afore we come here, but you'll be surprised 
to see 'ow skittish she can be when she has 
got over it a bit." 

They sat there while Rupert practised — 
till he started shying the assegais, that is — 
and then they went out and left 'im with 
Kumbo. Considering that she 'ad only just 
buried her 'usband, Rupert found her quite 
skittish enough, and he couldn't 'elp wonder- 
ing wot she'd be like when she'd got over 
her grief a bit more. 

The manager and George said he 'ad got 
on wonderfully, and arter talking it over with 
Mrs. Alfredi they decided to open that even- 
ing, and pore Rupert found out that the shop 
was the theatre, and all the acting he'd got 
to do was to dance war-dances and sing in 
Zulu to people wot had paid a penny a 'ead. 
He was a bit nervous at fust, for fear anybody 
should find out that 'e wasn't a real Zulu, 
because the manager said they'd tear 'im to 
pieces if they did, and eat 'im arterwards, but 
arter a time 'is nervousness wore off and he 
jumped about like a monkey. 

They gave performances every arf hour 
from ha'-past six to ten, and Rupert felt ready 
to drop. His feet was sore with dancing 
and his throat ached with singing Zulu, but 
wot upset 'im more than anything was an 
elderly old party wot would keep jabbing 'im 
in the ribs with her umbrella to see whether 
he could laugh. 

They 'ad supper arter they 'ad closed, and 
then Mr. Alfredi and 'is wife went off, and 
Rupert and George made up beds for them- 
selves in the shop, while Kumbo 'ad a little 
place to herself at the back. 

He did better than ever next night, and 
they all said he was improving fast ; and Mr. 
Alfredi told 'im in a whisper that he thought 
he was better at it than Kumbo. " Not that 
I should mind 'er knowing much," he ses, 
"seeing that she's took such a fancy to you. r 

" Ah, I was going to speak to you about 
that," ses Rupert. " Forwardness is no 
name for it ; if she don't keep herself to 'erself, 
I shall chuck the whole thing up." 

The manager coughed behind his 'and. 
" And go back to the Army ? " he ses. " Well, 
I should be sorry to lose you, but I won't 
stand in your way." 

Mrs. Alfredi, wot was standing by, stuffed 
her pocket-'ankercher in 'er mouth, and 
Rupert began to feel a bit uneasy in his 

" If I did," he ses, " you'd get into trouble 
for 'elping me to desert." 

"Desert!" ses Mr. Alfredi. "I don't 
know anything about your deserting." 

" Ho ! " ses Rupert. " And wot about 
my uniform ? " 

"Uniform?" ses Mr. Alfredi. "Wot 



2 93 

uniform ? I ain't seen no uniform. Where 
is it ? " 

Rupert didn't answer 'im, but arter they 
*ad gone 'ome he told George that he 5 ad 
'ad enough of acting and he should go + 

" Where to ? ** ses George, 

11 Til find somewhere," ses 
Rupert. " I shan't starve/' 

" You might ketch your 
death o* cold, though," ses 

Rupert said he didn't mind, 
and then he shut 'is eyes and 
pretended to be asleep. His 
idea was to wait till George 
was asleep and then pinch 
'is clothes ; consequently 
feelings when J e opened one 
eye and saw George getting 
into bed with 'is clothes on 

6i j' ve ? a( j m y SUS pi c ions of it for some 
days/* he ses 1 with a wink, 4i though you did 
come to me in a nice serge suit and tell me 
you was an actor. Now, you be a good boy 
for another week and I'll advance you a 


won't bear thinking about. He laid awake 
for hours, and three times that night George, 
who was a very heavy sleeper, woke up and 
found Rupert busy tucking him in. 

By the end of a week Rupert was getting 
desperate. He hated being black for one 
thing, and the more he washed the better 
colour he looked He didn't mind the black 
for out o* doors, in case the Army was looking 
for 'im, but 'aving no clothes he couldn't 
get out o' doors ; and when he said he 
wouldn't perform unless he got some, Mr. 
Alfredi dropped J ints about having 'im took 
up for a deserter. 

couple o J pounds to get some clothes 

Rupert asked him to let J im have 
it then, but *e wouldn't, and for 
another week he T ad to pretend 'e 
was a Zulu of an evening, and try 
and persuade Kumbo that he was 
an English gentleman of a daytime. 
He got the money at the end of 
the week and 'ad to sign a paper to give a 
month's notice any time he wanted to leave, 
but he didn't mind that at all, being deter- 
mined the fust time he got outside the place 
to run away and ship as a nigger cook if 'e 
couldn't get the black off 

He made a list o' things out for George 
to get for J im, but there seemed to be such a 
lot for two pounds that Mr. Alfredi shook 
his ; ead over it ; and arter calling J imself a 
soft-'arted fool, and saying he'd finish up in 
the worki'Hi^ tu :v;ide it three pounds and 



" He's a very good marketer, " he ses, arter 
George 'ad gone ; " he don't mind wot trouble 
he takes. He'll very likely haggle for hours 
to get sixpence knocked off the trousers or 
twopence off the shirt" 

It was twelve o'clock in the morning 
when George went, and at ha'- past four 
Rupert turned nasty, and said 'e was afraid 
he was trying to get them for nothing. At 
five o'clock he said George was a fool, and 
at ha'-past he said 'e was something I won't 

It was just eleven o'clock, and they 'ad 
shut up for the night, when the front door 
opened, and George stood there smiling at 
'em and shaking his 'ead. 

" Sush a lark," he ses, catching 'old of Mr. 
Alfredi's arm to steady 'imself. " I gave 'im 

" Wot d'ye mean ? " ses the manager, shak- 
ing him off. "Gave who the slip? Where's 
them clothes ? " 

" Boy's got 'em," ses George, smiling agin 
and catching hold of Kumbo's arm. " Sush 
a lark ; he's been car-carrying 'em all day — 
all day. Now I've given 'im the — the shlip," 
'stead o' — 'stead o' giving 'im fourpence. 
Take care o' the pensh, an' pouns " 

He let go o' Kumbo's arm, turned round 
twice, and then sat down 'eavy and fell fast 
asleep. The manager rushed to the door and 
looked out, but there was no signs of the boy, 
and he came back shaking his 'ead, and said 
that George 'ad been drinking agin. 

" Well, wot about my clothes ? " ses 
Rupert, hardly able to speak. 

ct P'r'aps he didn't buy 'em arter all," ses 
the manager. " Let's try 'is pockets." 

He tried fust, and found some strawberries 
that George 'ad spoilt by sitting on. m Then 
he told Rupert to have a try, and "Rupert 
found some bits of string, a few buttons, two 
penny stamps, and twopence ha'penny in 

" Never mind," ses Mr. Alfredi ; " Til go 
round to the police-station in the morfiing ; 
p'r'aps the boy 'as taken them there. I'm 
disapp'inted in George. I shall tell 'im so, 

He bid Rupert good night and went off 
with Mrs. Alfredi ; and Rupert, wishful to 
make the best o' things, decided that he 
would undress George and go off in 'is 
clothes. He waited till Kumbo 'ad gone off 
to bed, and then he started to take George's 
coat off. He got the two top buttons 
undone all right, and then George turned 
over in 'is sleep. It surprised Rupert, but 
wot surprised 'im more when he rolled 

George over was to find them two buttons 
done up agin. Arter it had 'appened three 
times he see 'ow it was, and he come to the 
belief that George was no more drunk than 
wot he was, and that it was all a put-up thing 
between 'im and Mr. Alfredi. 

He went to bed then to think it over, and 
by the morning he 'ad made up his mind to 
keep quiet and bide his time, as the saying 
is. He spoke quite cheerful to Mr. Alfredi, 
and pretended to believe 'im when he said 
that he 'ad been to the police-station about 
the clothes. 

Two days arterwards he thought of some- 
thing ; he remembered me. He 'ad found a 
dirty old envelope on the floor, and, with a 
bit o' lead pencil he wrote me a letter on the 
back of one o' the bills, telling me all his 
troubles, and asking me to bring some 
clothes and rescue 'im. He stuck on one 
of the stamps he 'ad found in George's 
pocket, and opening the door just afore 
going to bed threw it out on the pavement. 

The world is full of officious, interfering 
busybodies. I should no more think of 
posting a letter that didn't belong to me, 
with an unused stamp on it, than I should 
think o' flying; but some meddlesome son 
of a — a gun posted that letter and I got it. 

I was never more surprised in my life. 
He asked me to be outside the shop next 
night at ha'-past eleven with any old clothes 
I could pick up. If I didn't, he said he 
should 'ang 'imself as the clock struck twelve, 
and that his ghost would sit on the wharf 
and keep watch with me every night for the 
rest o' my life. He said he expected it 'ud 
have a black face, same as in life. 

A wharf is a lonely place of a night ; 
especially our wharf, which is full of dark 
corners, and, being a silly, good-natured fool, 
I went. I got a pal off of one of the boats 
to keep watch for me, and, arter getting some 
old rags off of another sailorman as owed me 
arf a dollar, I 'ad a drink and started off for 
the Mile End Road. 

I found the place easy enough. The door 
was just on the jar, and as I tapped on it 
with my finger-nails a wild looking black 
man, arf naked, opened it and said U /Tsfi!" 
and pulled me inside. There was a bit o' 
candle on the floor, shaded by a box, and a 
man fast as'eep and snoring up in one 
corner. Rupert dressed like lightning, and 
he 'ad just put on 'is cap when a door at the 
back opened and a 'orrid fat black woman 
came out and began to chatter. 

Rupert told her to hush, and she ushed, 



"good-bye/* and afore you could say Jack 
Robinson she *ad grabbed up a bit o J dirty 
blanket, a bundle of assegais, and a spear, 
and come out arter us, 

M Back ! " ses Rupert in a whisper, pointing. 

Kumbo shook her 'ead s and then he took 
hold of J er and tried to shove *er back, but 
she wouldn't ga I lent him a 'and, but all 
wimmen are the same, black or white, and 
afore I knew where I was she 'ad clawed my 
cap off and scratched me all down one side 
of the face. 

" Walk fast," ses Rupert. 

1 started 10 run, but it was all no 
good; Kumbo kept up with us easy, 
and she was so pleased at being out in 

He 'adn't been gone five seconds afore she 
missed 4m, and I never see anybody so upset 
in all my life. She spilt the beer all down the 
place where 'er bodice ought to ha' been, and 
then she dropped the pot and went arter 'im 
like a hare, I follered in a different way, 
and when I got round the corner I found 
she 'ad caught 'im and was holding 'im by 
the arm, 

O' course, the crowd was round us agin, 
and to get rid of 'em I did a thing Fd seldom 


the open air that she began to dance and 
play about like a kitten. Instead o J minding 
their own business people turned and follered 
us, and quite a crowd collected. 

"We shall 'ave the police in a minute," ses 
Rupert. M Come in 'ere — quick." 

He pointed to a pub up a side street, and 
went in with Kumbo holding on to his arm. 
The barman was for sending us out at fust, 
but such a crowd follered us in that he altered 
'is mind* I ordered three pints, and, while 1 
was s anding Rupert his, Kumbo finished 'ers 
and began on mine. I tried to explain, but 
she held on to it like grim death t and in the 
confusion Rupert slipped out. 

done afore — I called a cab, and we all 
bundled in and drove off to the wharf, with 
the spear sticking out o* the window, and 
most of the assegais sticking into me. 

"This is getting serious," ses Rupert. 

"Yes," I ses ; "and wot 'ave I done to be 
dragged into it ? You must ha 1 been paying 
'er some attention to make T er carry on like 

I thought Rupert would ha' bust, and the 
things he said to the man wot was spending 
money like water to rescue 'im was dis- 

We got to the wharf at last, and I was glad 

10 "iiilifef of ni * h '- 



watching and J ad gone off, leaving the gate 
open* Kumbo went in 'anging on to Rupert's 
arm, and I fullered with the spear, which I 
'ad held in my 'and while 1 paid the cabman. 

They went into the office, and Rupert and 
me talked it over while Kumbo kept patting 
'is cheek- He was afraid that the manager 
would track 'im to the wharf, and I was 
afraid that the guv'nor would find out that 
I 'ad been neglecting my dooty, for the fust 
time in my life. 

We talked all night pretty near, and then* 
at ha'-past five, arf an hour afore the ? ands 
came on, I made up my mind to fetch a cab 
and drive 'em to my 'ouse, I wanted Rupert 
to go somewhere else, but ? e said he 'ad got 

I 'ad found a bag o' money, when the cab 
pulled up with a jerk in front of my busc 
and woke me up. Opposite me sat Kumbo 
fast asleep, and Rupert 'ad disappeared ! 

I was dazed for a moment, and afore I 
could do anything Kumbo woke up and 
missed Rupert. Wot made matters worse 
than anything was that my missis was kneel- 
ing down in the passage doing 'er door-step, 
and 'er face, as I got down out o' that cab 
with Kumbo 'anging on to my arm, was 
something too awful for words. It seemed 
to rise up slow-like from near the door-step, 
and to go on rising till I thought it 'ud 
never stop. And every inch it rose it got 
wwse and worse to look at. 

She stood blocking up the doorway with 
her 'ands on her 'ips, while I explained, with 
Kumbo still 'anging on my arm and a crowd 
collecting behind, and the more I 
explained, the more I could see she 
didn't belie v^ a word of it 


nowhere else to go, and it was the only thing 
to get 'em off the wharf, I opened the gates 
at ten minutes to six, and just as the fust 
man come on and walked down the wharf we 
slipped in and drove away. 

VVe was all tired and yawning. There's 
something about the motion of a cab or an 
omnibus that always makes me feel sleepy, 
and arter a time I closed my eyes and went 
off sound, I remember I was dreaming that 

She never 'as believed it I sent for Mr. 
Alfredi to come and take Kumbo away, and 
when I spoke to 'im about Rupert he said I 
was dreaming, and asked me whether I 
wasn't ashamed o* myself for carrying off a 
pore black gal wot 'ad got no father or 
mother to look arter her. He said that 
afore my missis, and my character 'as been 
under a cloud ever since, waiting for Rupert 
to turn up and clear it away. 




Thj* map shows the route from Land's 
End to John o" Groat's. 

STARTING from Land's 
End, a granite promontory 
nearly one hundred feet in 
height, we may travel via brake 
to Penzance, a picturesque and 
Sourishing seaport Here we 
may see the famous St. Michaels 
Mount, a curious rocky islet 
which rises precipitately to a 
height of two hundred and 
thirty feet, and is connected 
with the shore by a natural 
causeway. From' hence the 
Great Western Railway, a line 
sedulous in its attention to 
the traveller, carries us to St. 
h^S a quaint little fishing town, 
Truro, and St Austell. 

^e pass on to Padstow, a 
driving fishing village, situated M* 
ln a beautiful valley. Fowev is© 1 

|Q, Plymouth : Sflllfl Ah Hridjej 



a small seaport with a pictur- 
esque harbour ; while I^ooe, 
another water ing-place^ is charm- 
ingly embowered in myrtles and 
oilier exotics* Saltash Bridge, 
a gigantic tron structure erected 
by Brunei in 1S59, leads us to 
Plymouth, one of the chief mer- 
cantile harbours of Great Britain. 
This historic seaport has a 
glorious record of adventurous 
deeds and high-souled enter- 
prise to its credit Dartmouth, 
which we next visit, is a town 
of considerable antiquity, and 
is mentioned by Chaucer in the 
prologue to the "Canterbury 

Much ecstatic eulogy has 
been written concerning 

Torquay, and certainly the 

panegyrics have been well 

deserved, for there is no more 

charming health resort on the 

south coast. 

Exeter Cathedral is one of the 
most perfect examples in Eng- 
land of the Geometrical Deco- 
rated style, and dates from the 
twelfth century- Crossing Devon- 
shire, we come to Lynton and 
Lynmouth, two villages closely 
adjoining each other and noted 
for their beautiful scenery and 
delightful situation. Glaston- 
bury, our next stopping-place, 
is an ancient town renowned in 
fable as the spot where Joseph 
of Arimathea founded the first 
Christian church in England. 
The old abbey, now in ruins, 
was built on the site of a former 
edifice by Henry II. 

Bath, celebrated for its heal- 
ing springs, will be for ever 


* 99 

Beau Nash, who did so much to 
restore this historic town to 
something of its former glory 
and importance* We next visit 
Bristol, at one time the chief 
seaport of the West of England; 
and then, crossing into Wales, 
we may proceed to inspect the 
ivy-clad ruins of Tintern Abbey, 
This romantic building was 
founded by the Cistercian 
monks in 1131. Near here is 
Monmouth, a town which Gray 
calls "the delight of the eye and 
the very seat of pleasure." 

A little farther north is the 
city of Hereford, pleasantly 
situated on the Wye. It was at 
one time strongly fortified, and 
remains of the old walls are 
still traceable- Cirencester, 



in Gloucestershire, is well- 
known as a hunting centre; 
while at Stratford, the birthplace 
of the world's greatest poet, we 
may see, amongst other objects 
of interest, the Shakespeare me- 
morial building, erected in 1879, 
Ken il worth Castle, immor- 
talized in Scott's novel, is one 
of the most historically interest- 
ing ruins in England, and dates 
from the twelfth century. The 
old University town of Oxford 
■s next visited, and then wt 
come to Henley, renowned for 
vis regattas. 
Maidenhead, a popular river 

resort, is next traversed. From 

We we may make a pilgrimage 

10 Stoke Pages, in Bucks, in the 

AuTchyard of which Gray wrote 

his famous u Elegy," Not far 

from here Burnham Beeches, 

that delightful refuge of tlpe 

jaded Londoner, is situated 4 % J ^ J ffi ^-~- : = ^^==^ 



Then, having surveyed Wind- 
sor Castle, the ancestral resi- 
dence of the Kings of- England, 
we may pass on to Eton, with 
its historic school and pictur 
esque scenery. From here we 
proceed direct to the Metro 
] \ polis> where, changing on to 
Y the now popular Great Central 
ine, we continue our way 
northwards. Passing Beacons- 
field we may pause to notice 
the old church where Edmund 
Waller lies buried, and then, 
alighting at High Wycombe, a 
short walk brings us to Hugh- 
enden Manor and churchy 
where a monument erected by 
the late Queen marks the last 
resting - place of the great 
Disraeli. The old town of 
Rugby is chiefly famous for its 
school, founded by Laurence 
Sheriffe in 1567, Birmingham, 
after Manchester the most im- 
portant industrial town in the 
kingdom, is next reached, and 
ft then a quick run brings us to 
the quaint old town of Chester, 
This ancient city contains a 
handsome cathedral built of 
red sandstone. From here 
England's premier railway, the 
I^undon and North Western, 
takes us to Liverpool, the chief 
seaport of the kingdom. SL 
George's Hall, the finest archi- 
tectural feature of this city, was 
erected in 1838-54, at a cost 
of ^300,000. Blackpool, the 
Brighton of the North, is well 
worth a visit, and presents a 
gay spectacle. Lancaster Castle, 
to a great extent rebuilt, but 
still retaining its ancient keep, 
is now a jaiL After visiting 
^Jgfp^ftjpbe, a prosperous 
e turn to the 



beautiful Lake Country, First 
Windermere, England's largest 
lake, is visited, and then Ken- 
wick, situated close to Derwent- 
water Lake, claims our atten- 
tion. Near here are the Falls 
of Lodore, the inspiration of 
South ey's verses. 

Carlisle Castle is still a place 
to see, and is the scene of many 
historical exploits. Here we 
embark on the Caledonian line, 
one of the most picturesque of 
British railways, and, bidding 
farewell to England, are speedily 
conveyed across the border into 
the "mountain and mist, lone 
glen, and murmuring stream w 
of Scotland. 

Our first stopping- place in 
Scotland is Gretna Green, the 
scene of so many rornantic run- 
away matches, A little farther 
on is Ecclefechan, the birth 
place and burial - place of 
Thomas Carry le. The pleasant 
little watering-place of Moffat 
is the centre of many interest- 
ing and varied scenes; while 
the Falls of Clyde is one of the 
beauty-spots of Southern Scot- 
land. Edinburgh, one of the 
most romantically beautiful 
cities in Europe, is now reached. 
The castle is the ancient seat 
of the Scottish kings, while 
Holy rood Palace contains some 
interesting relics of the ill-fated 
Mary Queen of Scots. The 
next point of interest on our 
route is Stirling, whose ancient 
castle has played a prominent 
part in Scottish history, On 
the Old Bridge of Forth Arch- 
bishop Hamilton, the last 
Roman Catholic prelate in 
Scotland, was hanged for 



\ It I rj I r Hfc5z--_z::= 






= j]P? participation in the murder of 
the Regent Moray (1570), Dun- 
blane possesses a beautiful 
thirteenth-century cathedral. 

Dumbarton Castle, situated 
on the summit of a rocky islet 
in the Clyde, has well been called 
the Gibraltar of Scotland. It 
was a fortress in the Roman 
times, and from century to cen- 
tury remained all but impreg- 
nable, Dunoon, a popular 
watering-place, is next visited; 
and then a little southward, on 
the island of Bute, is Rothesay 
Castle, dating from the four- 
teenth century, now in ruins. 

Loch Awe contains many 
islands, on some of which the 
dismantled battlements of 
ancient castles may be seen. 
Kilchurn Castle, a former strong- 
hold of the Campbell clan, is a 
picturesque ruin. Traversing the 
gloomy Pass of Brander, we pro- 
ceed westward to Oban, situated 
in a beautiful bay. A litile 
beyond Port Appin the square 
ruined tower of Castle Stalker 
remains to recall the glory of a 
fallen house, It was built by 
Duncan Stewart of Appin as a 
hunting lodge in which to enter- 
tain James IV. 

Traversing the district known 
as Gleneoe, the scene of the 
dastardly massacre of the Mac- 
donalds, we come at length to 
Loch Lomond, with mighty 
Ben Lomond rising majestically 
above it. Through the beautiful 
valley of the Trossachs, and 
under the frowning crags of Ben 
Venue, we reach Drummond 
< Castle, the seat of the Earl of 
Ancaster. A little farther north 
is Perth, the ancient capital of 





the Scottish kings, Continuing 
our northward route we come to 
Pit loch ry, a favourite summer 
resort and noted for its pic- 
turesque scenery. 

Here let us break off east- 
wards to visit Brechin, where we 
may see a cathedral erected by 
David L about 1150, but since 
utterly spoiled by restoration. 
Ed^ell Castle, an interesting 
mm, is at no great distance from 
here, while Montrose, a clean 
little seaport at the mouth of 
the Esk, is said to be the first 
place in Scotland where Greek 
was taught. A little to the south 
of Stonehaven, perched on a 
rock overhanging the sea, are 
the picturesque ruins of Dun- 
nottar Castle, built in the thir- 
teenth century, and afterwards 
possessed by the Keiths^ Earls 
Marischal of Scotland, About 
half a mile from the Granite City 
is the romantic Brig o' Balgow- 
nie, which still keeps fts curse 
unfulfilled. Byron, as a child, 
used to cross it trembling, for he 
remembered the prediction : — 

Brig o s Balgownie, wights your wa ? ; 
Wi a wife's ae son, and a mare's ae 

tkmn sa]] ye fa\ 

Returning westwards, we pass 
Balmoral, for long the Highland 
home of Queen Victoria. Pic- 
turesque Kingussie is reached, 
and from here we may proceed 
to the Cairngorm Hills. Then 
passing by Lochs Morlich and 
an Eilean, and traversing the 
Forest of Rothiemurchus, 
the Highland Railway bears us 
swiftly northwards to Elgin, 
^'hich city contains a beautiful 
old cathedral 




Loch Moy is passed on the 
way to Inverness, the ** capital of 
the Highlands." This ancient 
city possesses many handsome 
buildings, including the com- 
paratively modern Cathedral of 
St, Andrew. The Falls of Kil- 
morack are situated about three 
miles from Beauly, a village con- 
taining the ruins of a thirteenth- 
century priory. From here we 
journey to Strathpeffer, noted Tor 
its mineral springs, near which 
place rise the ancient towers of 
Castle Lead 

Travelling westward past Loch 
Luichart, Glen Carron, and Ach- 
nashellach, we come to the wild 
splendour and picturesque 
scenery of the Kyle of Lochalsh. 
A little farther north is Flockton, 
a small fishing village, situated 
on the shores of a lovely bay- 
Then, traversing the rugged wild 
ness of Ross and Cromarty, pass- 
ing through Coulin Deer Forest 
on our way, we reach the quiet 
little town of Dornoch, contain- 
ing an interesting thirteenth- 
century cathedral. 

Wick is the centre of an im- 
portant fishery trade and pos- 
sesses a fine harbour. From here 
we travel direct to John o" Groat s, 
the objective of our tour, and 
on the mighty boulders of Dun 
cansby Head we bring to an end 
our delightful and picturesque 
tour from the southernmost point 
of Great Britain to her most 
northerly extremity, having 
visited eft route exactly one 
hundred places of either geo- 
graphical j historical, or arc theo- 
logical interest. 

To the courtesy of the Great Western Rait 
way, Great Cent ml Railway, London and 
North Western Railway, Caledonian Rail^r- 
and [he Highland Railway we arc indexed 
for the photograph* which accompany the 
ForeRoing artic2*\ TJicwt of the HigMa**T 
Railway wrre taken by Mr. D. Whyie, 
photo-artist, of Jnvernes^. Photographs of 
Birmingham. Wick, and lhincamby Head Py 
Meiurs, G, W. Wilson and Co., Aberdren,^ 
Mkh Street. Riitfh> h i»y Messrs. J. Valentin* 
and bnns b Du:.dec 



HOSTS INVISIBLE : Tbe Story of an Army. 

By Max Pemberton. 


T was intensely hot in the 
forest and the sun without 
pity. We had blown the 
second of pur covers into the 
Ewigkeit, and *the patches 
came off the inner tube as fast 
as the obliging William could stick them on. 
Lunch stood afar off across a great stretch of 
desolate woodland. The Man-of-War alone 
expressed a sapient philosophy between 
whiffs from a pipe in whose bowl you could 
swim gold-fish. 

" Do you know where we may be ? " he 
asked, proudly. 

I told him that we were in the forest 
of Chambord, not far from the town of 
Charney and nearly fifteen to Blois and food. 
The intelligence, I observed, by no means 
disconcerted him. He smoked a little while 
in peace before he contradicted me. 

" Charney's . no town," he said, presently; 
" 'tis a bit of a village with an auberge at the 
end of it Man, did you never hear of 
Coupebois? I must tell ye of Coupebois 
— 'tis the finest story of the war." 

" Let's walk to Charney and see whether 
there is anything to eat in the place," said I ; 
" we may get sugar and water at the worst. 
Who knows ? There may even be white wine 
to be had." 

We rose as one man at the suggestion, 
and, greatly desiring the liquor of the place 
(as the old chronicles would say), we emerged 
upon Charney presently and burst upon the 
innkeeper with a thunder of voices. 

Let me not dwell in ecstasies upon that 
cooling freshet of white wine as it bubbled 
upon tongues which had gathered the dust 
of unnumbered leagues. We sat beneath 
the shade of a great horse-chestnut, bottles 
and bread before us, fine butter to our call, 
a masterpiece of a salad cunningly prepared 
in an old china bowl. 

"And, ye see," said the Man-of-War sud- 
denly, when cigars were lighted and some 
quaint white brandy set before us, " 'tis 
the very name of Coupebois that this good 
fellow bears. Read it on yonder door — 
Louis Coupebois, the son, I'll not be doubt- 
ing, of the man that was to destroy them, 
body and soul." 

"To destroy whom, Pat?" I asked him, 
for his true name is Patrick Donellan. 
" Whom was your Coupebois to destroy ? " 

" The people at the village and all there- 
abouts. 'Twas the most famous guerrilla 
south of the Loire, and the man that killed 
forty-three Germans with his own hand. 'Tis 
plain ye never read me despatches to the 

" Tell us of Coupebois," I exclaimed. " Let 
us have the story — here on the spot. You 
know that you are crazy to tell it." 

He denied the accusation, but commenced 
immediately. And for what it is worth 
(which to me seems not a little) I give it 
here, shorn of no fact but only of my old 
friend's idiom, which is not always to be 
understanded of the people. 


Charney is a village of one street, lying 
some fifteen miles to the south-west of the 
old romantic town of Blois. Girt about by 
forest, hidden at the heart of verdurous 
woods, few travellers spy it out or as much 
as know its name. Here through the 
centuries no master of the arts has lived nor 
famous Frenchman had his being. A simple 
agricultural people goes daily to the fields 
and the woods. The priest is their one link 
with an educated civilization — the fine old 
Gothic church the one temple of the 
world's mysteries. 

So it was until the year 1870, when a 
boaster opened the flood-gates and the hosts 
of Germany entered the fair kingdom of 
France. Little enough did Charney care 
about all this. She would never have known 
that there was war at all had not General 
Palliferes come south of the Loire to try and 
drive the Germans out of Orleans, and 
General von der Tann as resolutely swept 
the country in his determination not to be 
so driven. Then, truly, came rumour to 
Charney's gate. Her children fled from the 
forest as from a place accurst. There were 
lights of watch-fires by night and Uhlans 
amid the trees by day ; distant rumblings of 
drums, the echo of the trumpet's blare ; but 
beyond them all more terrible, the story of 
what the Prussians had done in the east, of 
murder and of rapine and of outrage. 

Vol. xxxiii.— 38/ 

Copyright, 1907, by Max Pemb«rton r jn the 1,'nltwJ States of A;neri<;a 



It was in vain that a good priest tried to 
comfort these poor people and to assuage 
their fears. If he told them thaUthe stories 
of outrage were ridiculously exaggerated and 
other stories absolutely false, they retorted 
with a garbled account of the sack and 
burning of Bazeilles or frenzied recitals of 
the fate of neighbouring villages, which none 
could contradict The younger men> fired 
by the eloquence of Coupebois, the mad inn- 
keeper, took arms in their hinds and went 
off to the forest. What a hunting of 
Germans they promised ! What ambuscades 
amid the thickets ! What a rare sport, sur- 
passing the hunting of the wild boar or any 
great drive that my lord, the marquess, had 
ever commanded for their delight. And 
Coupebois, the 
innkeeper, was a 
born soldier*, 
mark you. He 
understood the 
whole scheme of 
the operations 
about Orleans as 
well as General 
d'Aurelles himself 
— and that was to 
say not a little, 
for the General in 
question was one 
of the bravest and 
the best that the 
great war pro- 
duced. Every 
day at sunset 
would Coupebois 
sally forth accom- 
panied by the 
savage rustics he 
commanded so 
ably. The dawn 
saw them return, 
with grins upon 
their faces and 
blood upon their 
hands. There 
were bodies lying 
stark in the 
woods, they said, 
grimly, but not the bodies 

It is little wonder that 
lute speedily became the hero of this 
remote village— and of other villages round 
about. Coupebois would tell you very 
modestly that, if the Germans would remain 
long enough at Orleans, he would obligingly 
remove the whole of them from the face of 
the earth. 

Digitized by \jOOQ IC 

of Frenchmen, 
a savage so reso- 

** It is something that I know the forest/' 
he would declare, proudly ; " every tree, 
every alley is my friend. I>et a foot fall 
upon the leaves and I will tell you whether it 
be a French foot or a German three hundred 
paces from the spot. My gun is a good gun, 
and knows what it has to do, They say that 
the vermin are about Paris, and that the 
Emperor is a prisoner. Very well, good 
comrades, we must do what we can to put 
that right, So much I said lust night to a 
Bavarian whose throat I cut by Bonneville. 
* Be content to die for your country/ said I, 
'as many a good Frenchman has done. 1 
Messiers ! he squealed, like a stuck pig, and 
dug up the good sand with his heels. He 
was not a patriot, not at all." 

Let it be per- 
ceived from this 
that the guerrilla 
was not only a 
good soldier, but 
a merry fellow as 
welU His modesty, 
unfortunately, did 
not protect him 
from a certain 
notoriety which 
threatened not 
only the personal 
comfort, but the 
very existence of 
the people of 
Charney, General 
von der Tann, the 
commander of the 
Bavarians, in pos- 
sess) on of Or 1 can s, 
and wholly unap- 
preciative of the 
ambuscades in the 
forest, sent out 
a company of 
Uhlans purposely 
to destroy the 
guerrilla and to 
exterminate his 
band. From 
which moment 
clearly a ouirance — and who 
that the village trembled and 


the war was 
shall wonder 

l>elieved that its lust hour was at hand ? " The 
Germans will come here, ! said the more 
timid, "and our throats will be cut while we 
sleep. Ciod help us all and save us from 
Coupebois. 1 ' To which the priest replied 
that it would be so — when the Bavarians 
found the roadQpj^hwM^J&m 




" My children," he said, " I shall send 
Coupebois to the woods and the young men 
with him. We are a very little village, and it 
may be that the good God will not permit 
the Germans to discover us. If they come 
here, we must shake our heads and say 
nothing of Coupebois. What is he to us — 
have we not our sickles and our barns ? Let 
them look elsewhere and not trouble an 
innocent people." 

Here was a cryptic utterance which 
deceived none but the pious women who 
worshipped daily at the good man's shrine. 
Every man in Charney knew perfectly well 
that he had aided and abetted Coupebois to 
the best of his power, and would aid him 
again if occasion offered. As for the doughty 
innkeeper, he laughed so loudly at the old 
priest's threats that it is a wonder the 
Germans did not hear him away across the 

"To the woods if you will," said he, "and 
every brave fellow with me. Do you, rever- 
ence, take care of all the pretty girls to whom 
I shall make love upon my return. My 
work lies in the forest. Let them call me 
jackal, vulture — what they will. I care not 
at all while my gun is upon my back and my 
knife in its sheath. But Charney must be 
saved — yes, and I will save you, as the day 
shall show." 

He went off upon the threat, and for days 
Charney knew no more of him. When he 
returned the Germans were upon his heels, 
and the village understood that the hour of 
reckoning had come. 


A regiment of Uhlans had been sent out 
by General Meyer, one of Von der Tann's 
staff, to deal with Coupebois ; and for ten 
days did Coupebois deal right merrily with 
them. Knowing the forest as one of its very 
children clever as an animal in digging a 
burrow or taking to the trees, the rogue lived 
almost cheek by jowl with the troopers sent 
to shoot him, and many an empty saddle 
bore witness to his vigilance. Here from the 
shelter of a giant yew, there from a pit digged 
amid the fallen leaves, would Coupebois 
draw trigger upon his enemies and exult 
upon their fall. Day did not save them nor 
night hide them from him. As a wild cat 
upon a nesting bird, so Coupebois would leap 
upon a sentry and stab him to the heart. 
In vain, the Germans threatened and cajoled 
the villagers ; in vain they burnt the houses 
and the barns and hanged the affrighted 
peasants. Coupebois' savage laugh rang in 

Digiiiz&d byL** 

their ears like a phantom cry. His fame 
extended from Tours to Orleans and came 
eventually to Paris. 

This is not to say that he did not run 
many risks. Indeed, his life was often in 
peril as many times as the day had hours. 
Determined to take him at all costs, General 
von der Tann sent every horseman he could 
spare to the forest of Chambord, and these 
began to beat it as hunters for a savage 
animal. Had they known that their enemy 
hailed from Charney, assuredly would the 
shrift of the village have been short. But 
Coupebois was as cunning as he was savage 
— and no sooner did the Bavarians burn 
Bonneville than he put it abroad that 
Bonneville was his home. Few beyond the 
borders of the forest were able to contradict 
a story so useful. The very name of Charney 
was unknown to many a Frenchman in the 
neighbouring cities. 

Now this endured for some ten days, but 
upon the evening of the eleventh day, just 
when the troopers were bivouacking for the 
night, three miles from the village itself, what 
should happen but that Coupebois appeared 
before the doors of the inn and announced 
his intention to sleep in his own bed, this 
night at least. To the old priest, who stood 
amazed, and the women, who implored him 
upon their knees to spare them this peril, he 
answered with easy assurance that his secret 
could not be kept for ever, and that their best 
course was to take to the woods without any 
loss of time whatsoever. 

" Say that you have never heard my name 
and no one will contradict you," he exhorted 
them. "They will burn down your houses 
whatever happens. Why should I lie on the 
hard ground to save you from what must be? 
No, no, my friends ; Charney is as good as 
ashes, and I would sleep. Do you save your- 
selves while there is time." 

They replied to him with new protesta- 
tions as vain as the others. The younger 
men, gathering impatiently about the church 
door, began to talk of bar and barricade. 
After all, had not much been done in other 
villages by those who had the courage to 
do it, and why should Charney lag? This 
patriotic spirit, fostered by the old priest, who 
had carried a musket for Napoleon in his 
youth and could not for one moment con- 
template an abject surrender, became anon 
an activity which promised to turn the place 
into a veritable fortress. From the barns 
and the stables, from the fields and the 
woods, the great baulks of timber were hauled 
to defend fnat innocent street and close it 

I U I I I -• I I I 


3 o8 


to the enemy. Old Kahn, the blacksmith, 
who had a muzzle-loader somewhere in his 
attic and a bayonet hung like^a fishings 
rod above his mantelpiece, proved a hero 
second only to the redoubtable Coupebois. 
The priest himself worked like a very 
General of Division, directing, comforting, 


and promising a famous victory, Charney, 
so affrighted, so remote, so defenceless, had 
become animated in an instant by a martial 
spirit not surpassed in the south. These 
are the plain chronicles, neither asking nor 
offering explanation. 

There were offensive people enough after- 
wards, it is true, who .inquired with a lofty 
sense of superiority, *' What did the poor 
devils hope to do? JJ This, perhaps, the 
41 poor devils " themselves could not have 
told you. If they had any thoughts about 
-it at all, they own! their origin to the facts 
that there were Germans in the woods about, 

and that if the sales cochom set foot in 
Charney, good-bye to home and fortune and 
all that made life possible. It may be that 
the simple souls were possessed by the idea 
that some show of resistance would turn the 
invaders from their purpose, send them to 
other villages not so well defended, and 
hide Coupebois from their 
vengeance. In any case, 
the autumn night found 
them still at their occupa- 
tion. Willing hands set 
lanterns in the roadway to 
light the valiants as they 
worked. The women, 
grouped before the altars in 
the little church, prayed 
earnestly for the salvation of 
Charney, The men drank 
long draughts of potent 
cognac, and declared them- 
selves ready to fight all the 
German hussars inTouraine, 
And Coupebois — what of 
him meanwhile? Well, in 
honest truth, Coupebois ap- 
peared to sleep through it 
all as a tired animal that has 
been ahunting. His window 
stood wide open and his rifle 
at his side. The night would 
carry him its message swiftly 
enough, and for Charney and 
its awakened clods he cared 
not at all. The Germans 
would butcher them like 
sheep, burn their houses to 
the cellars, and discover the 
black eyes before the altars. 
But Coupebois would be 
away to the forest before all 
that happened ; and for 
every life taken in the villages 
the livesof ten shouldanswer 
in the woods — such an oath 
he swore and such an oath he would have kept, 


There were two young people in Charney 
who feared the Germans exceedingly, and 
these were Lelie and Ruben- -the daughter 
of Bordelas the farmer, and the son of 
Daville the com -factor. These had been 
away in the woods — who would ask where ? — 
when Coupebois returned to his inn ; and, 
affrighted at the sounds which fell upon their 
ears as they approached the village, they fled 
once more and took good counsel together. 
Ldie was then fifteen years old and Ruben 




just sixteen. It would be a match for the 
good priest some day — but not just yet, old 
Bordelas declared; and in this the corn- 
factor, who drank the old man's wine by the 
gallon, most cordially agreed. 

" There is always time to get married," he 
said ; " and to-morrow is much better than 

To which Bordelas would retort that 
Mme. Daville evidently had not lost her 
voice or the strength of her good right 
arm — an unpleasant conclusion which cost 
him many glasses. The young people, 
caring not a fig for the argument, spent 
many an hour in the copse by the mill, and 
emerged therefrom looking as simple as 
young people will upon such youthful 
occasions. War and the bruit of war had no 
other meaning for them than the warning 
that their old haunts were not safe — their 
roaming habits dangerous. 

" Beware of the wolves," old Bordelas had 
said ; " they go upon two legs and wear blue 
coats. Beware of them, children, for they 
will eat you." 

Lelie answered that Ruben would protect 
her against all the world — and, to be sure, 
she was never very far away from him upon 
their walks abroad. But they went now with 
timorous steps, while every sound in the 
brake — the splash of a pebble in the burn, 
the lowing of the kine, or the footfall of a 
laggard — could affright them. Imagine, then, 
with what staring eyes they perceived the 
lanterns swinging in Charney on that 
memorable night, the going and coming of 
the valiants, the great barricade that had 
been erected, the shuttered windows, and the 
loopholes in the barns. Had the end of the 
world been announced by a visionary, the 
words could not have had a more terrible 
sound than those uttered by one who passed 
them by and briefly told the news. 

"The Germans will be here at midnight — 
Coupebois is at his inn. They will come 
to take him, and none will live to tell the 

" Then why do you not send Coupebois 
away ? " Lelie asked, naturally. 

The fellow replied that the honour of 
France demanded resistance ; " and," he 
added, naively, " it is but for twelve hours. 
He will be away again with the dawn." 

They listened amazed, and, too fearful to 
go down to their own people, returned to 
the copse again and thence to the narrow 
high road by which you reach Chevarney. 
Ruben held Lelie's hand, but her wit proved 
the keener of the two. 

Digitized by dOOgle 

" Where are you taking me, RufaAn ? " she 
asked him by and by. I 

He rejoiced that he did not kncm. " But 
we must not go to Charney," he added, a 
little wildly. " Did you not hear them say 
that the Germans are coming ? " 

" They are everywhere," she said, " every- 
where — everywhere, Ruben. Lucette saw 
them as she drove to us from Amboise yes- 
terday. Old Pfcre Ramonet had a hundred 
of them at his farm ; how can we run away 
from them ? " 

The boy did not know* what to say to 
this. He was obsessed by the idea of saving 
her, and his wit seemed to say that he could 
do no better than hide her in that forest 
which had so often hidden them from prying 

" Let us go to the Silver Gorge and lie 
there till day comes. I am afraid of the 
darkness, Lelie. Do you not hear someone 
upon the road ? Yes, yes, I am sure of it — 
there are horsemen upon the road." 

They drew together affrighted and listened 
to the sounds. Distantly a thud of hoofs 
upon the dry turf could be heard. The 
thickets about were very still, and a great 
warm moon looked down upon a world of 
copse and brake and misty pasture - land. 
Charney itself, hidden by an island of shiver- 
ing aspens, showed its lights no longer. A 
deep silence as of ultimate night prevailed. 

" What is the good of going to the Silver 
Gorge when the Germans come to Charney, 
Ruben ? Oh, if we could help them all this 
night — if we could do something ! " 

"They are riding after Coupebois, Lelie, 
and if they find him it will be * good-bye' 
everybody. That's what Martin said — to 
hunt for Coupebois and to burn the village. 
How can you and 1 prevent a thing like 

"Of course we can't — of course — of 
course. Do you remember the Abb£ telling 
us yesterday that the road to Charney is hard 
and that the Germans would never find it, 
perhaps ? Pray God it is so, Ruben, or we 
shall have tears and not bread to-morrow." 

Ruben said " Yes, yes," in the tone of one 
who is lost for any satisfactory answer. They 
still trudged the high-road and were now 
almost a league from the village. The woods 
upon their left hand were dark and abundant 
— a little river ran upon the right and was 
crossed by a rugged bridge of stone. Here 
they first set eyes upon a German Uhlan — a 
lancer riding at a canter straight, as it would 
seem, to Charney and their homes. He 
passed them without so much as a downward 





glance, for his eyes were seeking the lights of 
,a village, and the miracle remained that his 
horse did not touch them. 

This sudden apparition, menacing and 
fearful, left the young people for a little with- 
out word or idea. They lay crouching upon 
the grass, their fears espying a Uhlan in 
every tree and bush, their hearts beating 
wildly, their hands clasped. When Ruben 
found the courage to spring up and gaze after 
the disappearing horseman, it was to tell 
Lelie that he rode to Charney and that the 
Abbe had talked nonsense, 

"As if the Germans could lose the way, 
Lelie. And there will be many more where 
he came from. Let us go while we can. 
They would kill us if they found us here," 

She suffered him to lead her, and they 
crossed the road and entered the thicket upon 
the right hand. Here the darkness was 
intense, the only sounds those of the hum- 
ming insects and the fitful shivering of leaves. 
The path which they followed had been 
followed by them many a day in the golden 

Digitized by dOOgle 

summer when the voice of war 
was yet unknown. They trod it 
now with quick, eager sLeps, until 
a harsh voice cried u Halt!" and 
a figure suddenly barred their 
way—the figure of a towering 
Prussian, his rifle in his hand, his 
knapsack on his back, an immense 
coat shielding him from the 
perilous mists, 

" Halt! Who goes there?" 
They turned and fled upon 
a common impulse* The giant 
Prussian, espying in them no 
more than a pair of amorous rus- 
tics, first sent a hearty laugh after 
them and then a bullet. His 
orders had been to let none pass 
upon the road to Charney ; but 
what Fleet o* Foot should stop 
these amorous youngsters, who 
ran like hares and could name 
you every thicket ? When an 
eager young lieutenant ran up to 
hear the circumstance* he cursed 
the man loudly and bade a party 
scatter to catch the fugitives. 
They might as well have tried to 
hunt a squirrel with an axe. 

Ruben and Lelie ran a good 
mile through the forest ; turning 
hither, thither : leaping burns and 
climbing banks ; plunging into 
bracken which hid them to the 
waists j skirting glades which 
were open to their enemies ; looking neither to 
the right hand nor to the left, but racing head- 
long for the Silver Gorge and uttering no word 
until they had gained it. Here was a veritable 
natural arbour, girt about by silver birches, 
defended by a placid burn, and so remote 
from frequented paths that even the foresters 
rarely discovered it. Sometimes, it is true, 
old Barmelot, the charcoal-burner, would 
light a fire in the cave beneath the hill, but 
he was a stanch friend to the lovers, and 
when they found him fast asleep by the 
embers they welcomed him as though he had 
been the commander of a division sent out to 
the salvation of Charney* 

"jean— old Jean — wake up, old Jean ! 
There are Germans in the woods, and they 
are going to burn our houses. Wake up, old 
Jean, or they will kill you ! ,J 

It is not good to be waked at the dead of 
night by a tale of woe, more especially if 
your common habits be nefarious. Old 
Barmelot, whose appearances in decent 
society were few; -prid far between, thought 



3 [ r 

for the moment that the police from Blois 
had got him by the neck upon some trumpery 
pretext of robbery or loot ; and when he dis- 
covered I A? lie, and Ruben by her side, his 
satisfaction was immediate, if inquisitorial. 

" How — to bum down the houses ? Whose 
houses should they burn?" And then, with 
a grin of deeper satisfaction, he added, 
M They'll go a long way before they burn 
down mine, my children — a very long way, 
be .sure of it, for I haven \ got one." 

Lelie flung herself upon the sandy floor 
and told him the story once more and with 
all a young girl's earnestness. The Germans 
were in the forest ; they were going to burn 
Charney to the ground, just as they had 
bumed Villefroy and Undemain. Coupebois, 
that villainous innkeeper, was at the bottom 
of it all — Coupebois, who would not remain 
in the forest when he had a mind to sleep 
under his own roof, 

"What shall we do, old Barmelot— dear 
soul, what shall we do to save my father and 
our home? The Abb^ says that they will 
never discover us, but we passed a 
horseman by the way and he rode 
to Charney — and hark, there are 
rifles firing even now ! * 

They all listened, and, sure 
enough, a sound of firing came to 
them across the forest. Nor was 
this all, for a flicker of watch-fires 
could be perceived behind the trees 
which lined the high road, and here, 
plainly enough, a second company 
of Germans was encamped. All this 
that fine strategist, Jean Barmelot t 
quickly understood. The blood of 
three generations of outlaws ran in 
his veins. He was like an old boar- 
hound which has heard the hunts- 
man's horn. 

" What must we do, my children ? 
We must burn them out ; that's 
what we must do. Oh, yes, you 
shall help me, both of you, for I see 
that you have courage. We will 
take a hint from Monsieur Bismarck 
and see what we can do. I^et the 
dogs go back with singed coats — 
that is what w T e must do, my children- 
Light the fires and show them the 
road — ho, ho ! a fine red road to 
Berlin and no Frenchmen to dance 
upon it." 

They did not understand him— 
who would have done? Half a 
wild man, his speech uncouth, his 
gestures those of a muttering ape, 

he began to rake the embers together and to 
fan them to flame, 

" Pluck brands 1 " he cried, with a sudden 
ferocity not pleasant to hear ; * fi pluck brands 
and bring them hither* We shall light a 
merry bonfire this night, my children. Ho, 
ho! they shall spy it out at Blois and tell the 
tale in Orleans — a merry fire to warm the 
Prussians 1 hands. Pluck ye brands and 
bring them hither. Do not delay if ye 
would save your homes." 

They were frightened of him by this time, 
vaguely comprehending and yet terrified by 
the possibility. A forest fire had ever been 
a fable of dread to the children of Charney, 
This old Barmelot, he would fire the woods to 
drive the Prussians out. The act was desperate 
— it may even be that of a madman ; but 
neither Ruben nor Lelie dared to tell him >n 
much* This was not the Jean Barmelot of their 
idle hours, but a more appalling figure — gib- 
bering, and active, and demoniacal They 
obeyed him in utter silence, bringing the brands 
and lighting them at the gathered embers* 

' rLv'CK ve uuAirss juij u;in«s them hither." 




" Fire the brake ! " he cried to them ; " see 
what I shall do, and imitate me. As God is 
in Heaven, I will tear your hearts out if you 
do not follow." • 

He plunged into the wood and deliberately 
fired the dry undergrowth. Lelie and Ruben, 
caught suddenly upon the wave of his mad 
impetuosity, found themselves running from 
copse to copse and scattering the golden « 
flame as they went. The great wood known 
as the wood of Merivault shone out suddenly 
as some mighty beacon of the forest. A 
hoarse cry arose from the distant camp, and 
the screams of terrified horses were to be 
heard. Yet above all these woeful sounds a 
quick ear would have heard the exulting 
voice of Barmelot crying, " Burn and slay ; 
burn and slay ! " The fever of a mad desire 
consumed his very veins — he lived a lifetime 
in that hour. Lelie and Ruben knew no 
such exultation. They had obeyed the old 
man reluctantly, and now they obeyed him 
no more. That cjjeadful voice of holocaust 
affrighted them to the last degree. It were as 
though ten thousand demons had been loosed 
in the forest and were devouring the very 
earth which they passed. Trees rocking, 
branches crashing, trunks bursting, streams 
boiling, bushes becoming in an instant paging 
furnaces— the great arc of light in the sky, 
the screams of perishing brutes, the swirling 
flight of awakened birds — was not this just 
such a picture as the Abb£ had painted of 
the end of the world and the last great 
Judgment ? And by their young hands had 
it all come about — they were the agents, 
theirs had been the words which awakened 
old Barmelot and sent him to the madness. 
Little wonder, truly, that they stood terrified, 
afraid to run, afraid to look — oblivious of 
their danger, of all but that whirlwind of 
flame which threatened to consume the forest 
to the very brink of the Loire itself. 

" Oh, merciful Heaven, Ruben ! what have 
we done? What shall we say when they 
ask us ? " 

The lad, falling to cunning, answered 
quickly : — 

"That it was the work of old Barmelot, 
the charcoal-burner." 

" They will never believe us, Ruben. And 
the Prussians — oh, what if the Prussians 
should find us " 

The words were fateful. Three ragged 
and blackened soldiers burst from the 
blazing thicket while she spoke, and, per- 
ceiving the two there with brands still in 
their hands, seized them instantly and made 
ready to shoot. 
7 D! 

The scene was weird enough, and yet not 
without parallel during the war. For the 
background of the picture, the rampant sea 
of flame leaping up above the forest and 
seeming to touch the very zenith. Near 
about a waste of glowing cinders, of bracken 
still burning, and the reddening stumps of 
trees. The lovers themselves, hand in hand, 
their eyes wide open, their faces pale as the 
moonbeams, stared piteously at the accusing 
troopers and vainly sought to understand. 
Of the men themselves but one had a pistol 
in his hand, and that he cocked deliberately 
as though to blow out the prisoners' brains 
where they stood. If they were given an 
instant's grace they owed it to a puny little 
major of Bavarians, who, emerging from the 
wood and not less angry than the others, 
nevertheless had the common sense to 
remember that even these incendiaries might 
tell him something. 

"Who are you — where do you come from?" 
he asked, waving the eager troopers back the 
while he drew a pistol of his own. 

Lelie answered him, for Ruben was too 
terrified to speak. 

" From Charney, sir." 

" Ha ! from Charney. Is it the people of 
Charney who told you to do this ? " He 
indicated the burning woods, but the girl's 
wit saved her from the trap. 

" There was an old charcoal-burner here, 
and he made us do it. We did not wish to, 
sir. We were afraid of him." 

The major turned to one of the others 
and exclaimed, " The truth, I think, or some- 
thing very like it." Then advancing a step 
toward Ruben he said : " Do you know that 
you must be shot for this ? " 

Ruben said " Yes, sir," but in so quiet a 
voice that the man regarded him amazed. 

" We are going to shoot you for burning 
the forest — but first you must lead us to 

" I will never do that, sir." 

It was Lelie's turn now. 

" Yes, yes," she cried, wildly ; " I will lead 
you, sir. Do not pay any attention to 
Ruben. He does not know what he is 

The man smiled significantly and gave a 
second order to a captain who had come up. 

"The wind is right," he said, pointing to 
the flaming woods ; " that will not go very far 
to-night. Take twenty men, captain, and 
clear a path where you can. The rest of us 
are for Charney." 

The young officer saluted and disappeared 





upon the high road- So far as the fire itself 
was concerned, the major had more sense 
than his absurd airs seemed to imply, A 
freshening easterly breeze kept the flames in 
check with the loss of no more than two 
thousand acres of woodland. There were 
fifteen men and thirty two horses of a regiment 
camped at the wood's heart perished at the 
first onrush ; but, none the less, some six 
hundred Sturdy troopers rode down to 
Charney, vowing vengeance as they went. 
Their task would be a brief and merry one, 
they promised themselves. Not a house 
must be left standing, not a man, a woman, 
or a child alive to greet tomorrows sun. 
Thus had Bazeilles paid the price, and thus 
must Charney pay. The fire had maddened 
them. They went as troops to a sack, all 
the lust of rage and vengeance driving them. 
And what of Lelie and of Ruben while 

Vol. xxxiiL — 40. 

they went ? Were they 
not guiding these monsters 
to the very threshold of 
their homes, it may be 
depriving C 'barney of its 
very last hope— that hope 
of security which had been 
the good Abbe's boast ? 
Might not their own kith 
and kin he i he firsl victims 
to their cowardice, those 
they loved the first to pay 
the penalty? So might an 
observer who did not know 
the count ry have said- For, 
in truth, little Lelie marched 
bravely, not toward Char- 
ney at all, but in the direc- 
tion of Blois, where lay 
General d'Au relies and the 
army of the Loire, Gladly, 
as one going to a feast, the 
young girl tramped onward, 
far away from the village 
which watched and waited 
in such an agony of ex- 
pectation. The dawn had 
come before the troopers 
discovered the trick — and 
the dawn found them with- 
in a mile of those who 
could avenge her- 

The men halted beneath 
a clump of trees, and the 
major commanded them to 
bring ropes from a neigh- 
bouring farmhouse. There 
was neither trial nor ques- 
tion this time. In grim 
silence, clasping each others bands firmly, the 
two waited for the end, 

ft Kiss me, Ruben/ 5 Lelie said, and very 
gently she turned to him as to one who had 
given his life for her. He took her in his 
arms and held her close- The major's hoarse 
command that his men should make haste 
found the troopers still reluctant The hands 
which set the rope about the young girl's 
neck blundered at their task. Heavens ! 
that this should be war — this brutal slaughter 
with the sun shining out upon them and the 
freshness of dawn in the air ' So the man, 
who answered nothing, thought. Theirs was 
not the crime, though they were the first to 
pay the penalty. Such, indeed, was the 
truth ; and when a troop of French cavalry 
debouched suddenly upon the high road, 
those who hddh f^Jr? anJ Ruben were 





all that avenging regiment not thirty reached 
Orleans alive. 

" The cKvil, their master, delivered them 
into our hands/' the wily Coupebois declared 
afterwards, '* While they thought I was at 
Charney, the night found me in camp at 
Blois. It is true, my friends, that we were 
returning with thirty thousand men when 
they would have hanged old Bordelas 1 
daughter. So much conies of being in a 
hurry. We took them as they vere grouped 
about a tree, and a prettier thing has not 

by Google 

been done dur- 
ing the war. 
Assassins— do 
not call us so ! 
Are nut the 
Prussians verm in, 
and should not 
they be shot as 

The boast 
aside, the facts 
of that memor- 
able action were 
as the innkeeper 
had stated them. 
He went to 
Charney for a 
ruse to trap the 
Prussians in the 
village. The 
night found him 
at Blois in Gene- 
ml d'Aurelles* 
camp, Thirty 
thousand men 
being numbered 
for the defence 
of the doomed 
hamlet, Coupe- 
bois accom- 
panied the regi- 
ments to be their 
guide — and so 
he stum bled upon 
the Prussians and 
followed them, 
hidden, until the 
moment when 
they would have 
wreaked their 
vengeance upon 
the children. 

The rest is 
history, the 
story of a fierce 
fight upon a high road, of Uhlans riding 
madly, of short, sharp cries of agony, of men 
reeling from their saddles, of gashed heads 
and torn limbs —of that mad slaughter which 
the world has called war and crowned with 

Hut Lelie and Ruben sobbed out their 
joy in each other's arms. They knew not 
whether they had done right or wrong. The 
sun shone down upon their happiness because 
they still lived and would go to the forest 
together when the war was over. 

Original from 


Portraits of Celebrities at Different Ages — New Series. 

Frttrn «) 


"THE Right Hon. 

* Richard Burdon 
Haldane, M. P. , was 
born in 1856, and is 
the son of the late Mr. 
Robert Haldane of Clo- 
anden, W,S, He was 
educated at Edinburgh 
Academy and Edin- 
burgh and Gottingen 
Universities. When he 
was a boy at Edinburgh 
Academy a generation 
ago he was head and 
shoulders above the 
others. *' I never knew 
such a fellow," said 
one of his old school- 
mates. "The most 
difficult tasks for us 
were child's play to 
him. He could take 
in a whole page of 
Cicero or a proposition 
in Euclid while we were 
the first lines, and he had 
oracular way with him 
him l Solon/ We all 
— * Dick,' as we used to 
call him — would be a 
big man some day, and 
the only thing that has 
surprised me is that he 
has not * arrived' long 

" And it was just the 
same at Edinburgh Uni- 
versity, where I spent a 
couple of years with 
him. He carried all 
before him ; but philo- 
5 his strong 
He was a glutton 
fairly revelled in 
it, and was miles ahead of 
the next best man. He 
took first-class honours 
in it, and crowned this 
achievement by carry- 
ing off the Ferguson 
scholarship in philoso- 
phy againsr the picked y^l^^'^i 

wrestling with 
such a grave, 
that we christened 
knew that Haldane 

for it 

men from the four 
Scottish Uni versities. 
Not content with these 
laurels, he went to Got- 
tingen to pit himself 
against the acutest 
intellects of the Con- 
tinent, He literally 
saturated himself with 
Kant and Schopen- 
hauer, Fichteand Hegel 
— all, of course, in their 
native German ; and 
the outcome of it all 
was a series of works on 
philosophy command- 
ing the admiration of 
the world" 

Mr. Haldane had 
chosen the life of a 
lawyer, but this was a 
curious preparation for 
iitiuiuffrapL it, although no doubt 
it was admirable mental 
training, for which he has good reason to be 
thankful. At the Chancery Bar he soon 
forged his way to the front, and took silk in 
little over ten years, a feat which has only 
been rivalled by a few 
very exceptional men, 
such as the Lord Chief 
Justice* At this time 
he had been five years 
in Parliament, and had 
already made his mark 
as a legislator; his Alma 
Mater conferred the 
degree of Doctor of 
Laws on him ; and in 
1902 he was promoted 
to the dignity of a Privy 

To all who know Mr, 
Haldane j the marvel is 
how he has been able 
to get through his 
amazing amount of 
work and yet have time 
for anything else. Dur- 
ing recent years it is 
said that he has made 
""fittle short of twenty 

£ Thuti 





thousand pounds a year at the Bar ; and yet, 
in spite of the immense labour that this 
represents, he has assiduously attended the 
House of Commons, has 
written bulky volumes on 
such abstruse subjects as 
"The Pathway to 
Reality," has been chair- 
man of committees, 
governor of important 
bodies, and so on, and 
still has found the days- 
long enough for social 
enjoyment and jaunts on 
his bicycle. 

A small child is said, 
by a writer w T ho knows 
Mr. Haldane, once to 
have asked " whether any 
man can really be as wise 
as Mr. Haldane looks/' 
He then goes on to say, 
u Whether the remark was 
actually the product of 
innocent childhood or 
was the attribution to her 
of an older brain, we 
should not like to say. 
But, in any case, the 
answer is simple. £ Y 
man who 
dane looks 

Front fi Photoprajtk, 


ihere is one 
is really as wise as Mr, H al- 

and he is Mr, 

Haldane.' The 
new Minister 
of War must 
have been 
born thinking, 
and he has kept 
it up ever since. 
1 The brain of 
the em pi re ' 
he has been 
called ; but 
the empire over 
which Mr. 
Haldane's brain 
ranges h not 
all of this 
world. 1 ' 

No man in 
Parliament has 
quite the same 
aspect of wis- 
dom, and it is 
doubtful if any 
man of them 
alt can rival 
Mr. Haldane 

AOK 33, 

in the range and depth of his erudition. 
Broad shouldered, stout and sturdy of limb, 
with a big head and a powerful, clean- 
shaven face, the War 
Secretary is the very type 
of the solid, confidence- 
inspiring Briton whom 
Nature has designed for 
high and responsible 
work in the world He 
entered his name as a 
student at Lincoln's Inn 
when he was eighteen, 
but, thanks to his pur- 
suit of philosophy, it was 
nearly five years before 
he qualified for a wig and 
gown and set to work on 
equity-drafting and con- 
veyancing. Even in these 
early days he wa* a 
marked man, and more 
than one barrister recalls 
to-day his prediction of 
tlie early eighties that 
* l Haldane would some 
day sit on the Wool- 
sack. 41 

The prophecy has not 
come true yet, but he has done equally well, 
and is probably first in the running for the 

Ix>rd Chancel- 

Mr Haldane 
has views on 
almost every 
subject. He 
is a bit of 
an individualist 
and something 
of a Socialist ; 
he is in favour 
of getting the 
increment for 
the community, 
and also of 
buying out Irish 
landlords with 
British credit. 
He takes 
special interest 
in women's 
questions, and 
on one occasion 
introduced a 
Women's Suf- 
frage Bill of his 

Original 1 om 

^©0*4* - <••-• nWftERSTYOF MICHlgft 



From n PAo(n Im J. Cfljtthill Smith. 

by Google 

Original from 

Wky Trails Are lLate e 

By Edward Frith. 

Ni. ^iiTram fc, 

HE 7,7," explained the rail- 
way porter in one of Charles 
Keene's sketches. " Nae 
doot you mean the 7.27*" 

il But," declares the pas- 
senger, "it says the 7.7 in 
the book/' 

4L Oh, aye, in the book, sir But the 
widow Jackson's twa coos are no in the 
book, and it ay taks the driver twenty 
minutes each morn to whussle them off the 
metals I " 

Although it goes without saying that abso- 
lute punctuality is aimed at, the widow 

finds himself baffled by delays which he 
cannot understand ot excuse. " Why is the 
train late?" ejaculated an irate passenger 
one November day. " No snow, no rain, no 
fogs, no signals, no breakdown, no rush of 
traffic," il Fine weather, sir," replied the 
guard, let us hope facetiously. 

There must be a just cause for un punctu- 
ality in railway working. Let us look at the 
problem from a railway-man's point of view. 
It may surprise Strand readers to be told 
that, instead of the cynicism and carelessness 
popularly attributed to managers and officials 
with regard to an accurate service, the very 


a] WHOLK LI WE FOR HOURS, | /'.'.. f-. 

Jackson's two cows are represented in some 
form or other on every railway in the king- 
dom. To the " time and tide " which wait 
for no man, George Stephenson added " the 
train," But, alas, the revised proverb is 
falsified every hour in every day of the year. 
After seventy years of railways the average 
traveller, in a feverish haste to transport him- 
self somewhere in the quickest possible time, 

reverse is the case. Not only is punctuality 
aimed at, but for every single minute's 
deviation from the timetable every servant 
responsible must give an exact account 
Even that little delay this morning at Plum- 
stead or Crow bo rough through your luggage 
not being put in the right van must be 
reported in writing; by the guard and 




From a] 



Every moment lost or gained during a whole 
journey of four or five hundred miles has 
its historian, 

To the head guard of each train is supplied 
at the beginning of his journey what is known 
as a "Train Journal" or " Report." In this 
document he must insert, in their respective 
columns, the names of the starting and finish- 
ing stations, the total number of minutes lost 
by traffic, the total number of minutes lost by 
the engine, the number of minutes lost by 
brake trouble (assuming in each case that 
time has actually been lost), and the number 
of vehicles on the train. At the end of each 
journey the sheet is handed back to the 
driver after having received the guard's signa- 
ture, and is, in due course, forwarded to the 
office of the superintendent of the line, 
where it is carefully examined and checked. 
Should anything unusual occur a special 
report must be made of it and attached 
to the sheet. 

The taking up of 
delays is done by means 
of either il Extracts " — 
t\e* t printed sheets 
addressed to station- 
masters, upon which are 
extracted particulars of 
delays so far as the station 
to which the " Extract" 
is addressed is concerned 
—or by telegram when 
occasion demands it. 

Explanations are then 
obtained from the staff 
concerned by the station- 

master, who returns the 
u Extract " with any re- 
marks he may have to 
make. It is then dealt 
with as circumstances 

"The absolute punctu- 
ality of trains," writes 
Mr. James C. In^lis, the 
general manager of the 
Great Western Railway, 
to The Strand, " is the 
ideal which every railway 
officer seeks to attain, 
and every effort of each 
member of the traffic 
department is consist- 
ently directed to that 
object, but it is not 
susceptible of easy ac- 
** The time-table is framed with due regard 
to two points — first with regard to the speed 
the train can travel, or be permitted to travel, 
and secondly as to the stoppages it is required 
to make. In a secondary sense the other 
considerations which have to be taken into 
account are the connections with other trains 
at junctions on our own line or with those of 
other companies, 

"It will be understood, however, that the 
allowances of time at and between stations 
are governed by what may be called ' normal 
considerations/ and that allowances are not 
made for exceptional circumstances which 
occur only now and then, and which operate 
to the prejudice of punctuality. For example, 
a strong head or side wind is a factor which 
sometimes militates against timekeeping; the 
necessity for adding appreciably to the weight 
of the train by the attaching of horse-boxes 
or special vehicles ; an exceptional condition 






of the rails; relaying operations ; the detention 
of the train at a station by the late arrival 
of a number of passengers, or difficulty in 
booking thetn or in dealing with their 
luggage ; delays in con sequence of foggy 
weather; failure of engines from causes 
which could not be detected before the 
journey was commenced ; and a variety of 
other similar matters, perhaps too numerous 
to specify, which occur, although not regu- 
larly every day, from time 
to time, in the case of the 
smaller stations. Ofcou rse, 
in the case of the larger 
stations a greater margin is 
allowed, but the public 
would be the first to cry 
out and blame the company 
for dilatoriness if the maxi- 
mum time ever taken at a 
station to deal with the 
ordinary work of the place 
were adopted as a standard 
allowance of time for that 

" In years gone by heroic 
efforts have been made to 
obtain what may be termed 
i paper punctuality/ and 
the foregoing will show how 
such punctuality could be 
secured. For example, the 
margin between the arrival of a main- 
line train and the departure of a branch 
train at a station is, say, ten minutes. 
The main - line train from any one of 
the causes already referred to is late on 
several occasions in a given period. The 
branch train starts late t and the average of 
unpunctual working is immediately increased. 
The simplest thing in the world would be to 
make the margin at the station half an hour. 
Absolute punctuality would probably thereby 
be secured, but obviously to the prejudice of 
the travelling public. Such attempts have 
been made in the past, but they have never 
been appreciated by the public, although they 
may have salved the consciences of some of 
the railway officials- 

lt The percentages of arrivals to time or 
within five minutes of the booked time of 
the through trains of the Great Western 
Company for October and November were 
sixty -five and seventy-one respectively, and 
of local trains eighty- four and eighty-five 

u On busy sections of the main or trunk 
lines, where the trains are very numerous 
and the booked margins for clearance are in 



Fntmr Vh^t, by A. ?V«r, 

many cases short, the fact of one train getting 
out of course from any cause reacts upon 
those following and results in the late running 
of a series of trains. In fact, instances have 
occurred where delay to one train has resulted 
in the disorganization of as many as one 
hundred other trains. This point does not, 
as a general thing, appeal to the travelling 
public, who are interested only in the trains 
by which they are travelling ; but it is a very 
important factor in normal 
conditions, and its import 
ance is increased at recog- 
nised holiday times, when 
the trains are more numer 
ous than ever/' 

In the opinion of Mr, 
Sam Fay, general manager 
of the Great Central Rail- 
way, it is certain that so 
long as railways exist abso- 
lute punctuality with any- 
thing like high speed will 
never be realized. 

"The fact is," he writes, 
"time-tables are compiled 
to meet a normal traffic, 
leaving but little margin for 
the thousand and one ex- 
ceptional items the com- 
panies are called upon, 
often without due notice, to convey, 
such as vehicles with race-horses to attach 
at a roadside station, the corpse of some 
celebrity in a special conveyance, a War 
Office route, a helpless invalid in a road- 
carringe, a touring theatrical party and their 
scenery, my lord and lady with a ton of 
luggage, and so on, ad infinitum* The 
result is detention at a station over and 
above the allotted time, and following trains 
and those in connection at junction points 
are more or less affected, one such un- 
punctual train being the cause of a dis- 
organized service throughout the day. 

M A story is extant of a Scotch superin- 
tendent who, upon receipt of a complaint 
from an English line that his train to the 
South on a Saturday night had, in conse- 
quence of its unpu actuality, played havoc 
with the main - line service, referred the 
writer to the late arrival of one of the 
Northbound trains on the previous Monday 
as the original sinner, the lateness of that 
particular train having acted and reacted 
upon the up and down trains of the Scotch 
company during the six working days and 

nights, (fflffEJ^^FfffiT|l^r hich the 



quietude and sanctitude of the Sabbath alone 
freed them. 

w This is one of the peculiarities of the 
situation, the dependence of one company 
and of one train upon another A train on 
the Great Western late from Birmingham 
will tell its tale at Oxford and Rending, 
and spread confusion east and west and 
south through the Reading and Basing- 
stoke branch to the South- Western system in 
Hampshire, Dorset, Wilts, and Devon. The 
wave of unpunctuality, once started, gathers 
force as it proceeds, ebbs and flows, and 
reaches the most remote branches. It may 
be that the late Birmingham train upsets -the 
South -Western into Portsmouth and Havant, 
and delays the Brighton Company's train from 
thence to London and the southern coast, 
and leaves its trail eventually in the suburban 
districts and throughout the counties of 
Sussex and Kent 

" From this it will be 
seen how difficult it is 
for any man, however 
able and experienced, 
to draft a workable 
time - table for trains 
stopping at many sta- 
tions, and for a varied 
traffic of all sorts and 
sizes, business, tourist, 
naval, military, and 
otherwise. On some 
days his figures would 
probably answer, and 
even show time to 
spare ; on others, from 
a variety of causes, a 
much wider margin 
would be needed. It 
is not the express so 
much as the ordinary 
long-journey trains that 
the public have to complain of, and these 
are the most difficult to manage* and give 
more trouble than any other." 

It might be added that the late arrival of 
any one train at an important junction will 
disorganize the whole system of traffic for 

In many cases the driver is able to make 
up for delays by putting on extra speed when- 
ever he gets a clear run before him, and thus 
at the end of the journey, although his train 
may have been delayed from one cause or 
another as much as six or seven minutes 
en route, he is able to bring it safe to its 
destination punctual to schedule time. 

But all drivers arc not like this. Tlurre 
are some who never think of making up for 
lost time, and, although they may have a clear 
run of fifty miles with a train that was one or 
two minutes late in starting, they will be the 
corresponding number of minutes late on 
arriving at their destination. Theoretically 
this is, no doubt, very excellent driving, but 
in practice it is apt to be not a little exas- 
perating. But opportunities for making up 
for lost time are not confined to drivers 
alone. Guards have a great deal to do with 
the punctual working of a train, and where 
one will lose time at stations another will 
steam alongside the platform a minute or two 
to his credit. 

A fertile cause of delay on certain lines is 
furnished by the unpunctuality of the con- 
necting steamer service. l ; or instance, every 
time the Channel boats are late means a 

Frvm fll 



corresponding delay, not only to the boat 
train, but to many other trains on the line 
as well. 

Then, again, there is the occurrence of 
Royal and other extraordinary "specials" 
which enjoy right-of-way over the line to the 
certain dislocation of traffic, and the up- 
setting of time table calculations. 

The causes of train delays are, of course, 
many and various ; but in the majority of 
instances time lost in running may be said 
to be due to one of three things — *>., bad 
weather conditions, engine defects, and over- 
loading. With regard to the first-named, 
fog stands pre-eminent as a complete dis- 

"Sfffl^^MlBffiA or<W ™ rit 




Frvtn a Photo, M 

(or should we say demerit?) comes wind, 
and by this not so much a head- wind as a 
side-wind is meant, A head- wind is certainly 
by no means a desirable factor in running 
trains to time, but whereas with this the only 
part of the train which offers resistance to it 
is the front, with a side-wind resistance is 
offered to it by the whole length of the train. 
But this is not the only mischief it is capable 
of doing. Sometimes as much as a hundred- 
weight of coal is blown off the tender in a 
run of thirty 
miles , or even 

Then, again, 
if there is any 
tendency on the 
part of the engine 
to slip, matters 
are made even 
worse by the 
sand being blown 
from the rails, 
thus rendering 
the sanding 
apparatus abso- 
lutely useless. 
Know, too, is 

a prolific source oF trouble in winter, but, 
happily, heavy snowstorms are of rare occur- 
rence in this country, and when they do 
come they are general: y confined to the 
northern counties. Not only is the line 
blocked by snow-drifts, but at night time in 
particular snow is not a little troublesome, as 
it has a nasty habit of sticking to the signal 
lamp-glasses and obscuring the light. Con^ 
trary to one's expectations rain causes very 
little delay or inconvenience, except in so far 
as it may be the cause of slipping on the part 
of the engine. 

In the autumn falling leaves have been 
known to cause serious delays, and have on 
occasion brought trains almost to a standstill. 
Only a few years ago a train on the South 
Eastern and Chatham line came very nearly 
to a dead stop between Nutfielcl and Redhill, 
owing to an exceptionally heavy gale burying 
the rails with leaves in a cutting. Slipping 
was the inevitable result, and it was only by 
covering the rails with ballast that any head- 
way could be made at all in the end, 
there was a loss of forty-eight minutes be- 
tween the two stations, a distance of little 
more than two miles. 

Delays arising from actual defects in the 
engine itself are most frequently caused by 
shortness of steam* This may he brought 
about by a mismanaged fire, by bad coal, or, 

IS AK(H iM ]-, nii*TAC( r K 


1-4, I- iSVW 

more likely still, by a leaky fire-box. When 
this occurs, if no pilot engine is available, 
there is no alternative but to wait for steam 
to be raised again, which may take anything 
from five minutes to an hour. The un- 
pleasantness of the situation is sometimes 
enhanced by the train coming to a standstill 
in anywhere but a pleasant place. On one 
occasion the train from Ash ford to Victoria 
actually came to a full-stop half-way through 
Penge tunnel. The feelings of the more 

nervous passen- 
gers must have 
been anything 
but agreeable. 

Serious delay 
consequent on 
the total disable- 
ment of the 
engine is fortu- 
nately of very 
rare occurrence, 
and the causes 
of such mishaps 
may generally be 
found in broken 
piston- rods, 
broken valve- 
spindles, or broken connecting-rods. Delays 
of a less seriouscharacter are sometimes caused 
by the axle-boxes and various parts of the 
motion becoming heated ; but in these in- 
stances drivers can generally manage to 'iiang 
on " until another engine can be procured. 

Coming now to the question of over- 
loading, this is a condition not easily avoided 
at certain seasons of the year. The engines 
capable of hauling the heaviest trains of the 
respective companies are necessarily rather 
limited, and there are, consequently, a great 
number which are sometimes hardly equal to 
hauling the loads they are called upon to 
take. More especially has this been the 
case of late years, when the weight of trains 
has been greatly increased. 

Naturally, with steep gradients, another 
cause of delay, the difficulty would be 
increased* Picking up water is another 
obstacle in the way of speed records, inas- 
much as a slackening of pace is necessary, 

A well-known railway-man, setting forth his 
views for the benefit of his profession, quoted 
the following as an instructive example of 
how unavoidable delays are met with during 
the running of certain trains. 

There is a train booked to leave Dover at 
7-6 a.m., which travels up via Tonbridge, 
Oxttxh ScImIoii K r;i 1. Wood side, and Becken- 
ham. Th^.j^|^^ ( f 1Sf| p 5 ^enbridge 



by a train starting from that station at 9. 1 2 
and also running via the Oxted line, and 
this, in turn, is preceded by the 8.48 a.m. 
train from Tonbridge via Redhill. It has 
occasionally happened that this Tonbridge 
train has been late in starting to the extent 
of five minutes or so. This has caused the 
Edenbridge train to be late starting, which, 
in turn, has stopped the Dover train. The 
latter, being late on arrival at Oxted, has 
caused delay at Hurst Green Junction 
(junction of the Tunbridge Wells line with 
the Oxted line) to the 8.58 a.m. London, 
Brighton, and South Coast train from Tun- 
bridge Wells, due at Oxted four minutes 
after the Dover train, which, in turn, has 
stopped the 8.18 a.m. train from Lewes via 
East Grinstead, between Lingfield and Oxted. 
This train attaches coaches off the Tunbridge 
Wells train at Oxted, and its late arrival 
there, together with that of the Tunbridge 
Wells train, has made it late in getting away 
again for Croydon. 

The result has been that the 9.23 train 
from Tunbridge Wells, which is fast from 
Edenbridge to Croydon, and is due to pass 
Oxted ten minutes and Selsdon Road five 

minutes after the Lewes train, has also 
experienced delay. But this is not all. On 
reaching the Joint Line at South Croydon, 
these two trains (8.18 and 9.23) are followed 
by the 9.55 train from Caterham, booked to 
pass South Croydon at 10.16 — four minutes 
after the 9.23. Consequently this train has 
also been delayed. 

As each of these trains has suffered delay 
to the extent of five minutes or more, it will 
be seen that, as a result of the Tonbridge 
train being late, no fewer than six others 
have experienced delay, the time lost thus 
amounting in all to about thirty minutes. 

In the appended example of a guard's 
report the reader is enabled to note the vicis- 
situdes of speed on an average working day. 
First, two minutes are lost at Walmer, which 
the guard fondly hopes may be the only delay; 
but even after five minutes have been lost 
there is still a chance that the driver may yet 
steam into Charing Cross "on time." Thence- 
forward it is a battle between punctuality and 
delay, but after the incident of the hot axle 
there is no hope of recovery, and the hands 
of the clock point to 11.5 before the train 
finally comes to a standstill at the terminus. 

> . 


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OriQinsI from 

We are indebted to the courtesy of the Railway Magazine for permission to reproduce several of 

the photographs used in this 11 tick. 

An Ordeal of F&iitk, 

By Warwick Deeping. 

T was a stormy night in April 
when Gordon Jamieson, of 
King's Mailing, put out his 
study lamp, lit his candle, and, 
carrying with him a popular 
novel of the day, went up to 
bed. The wind was breathing restlessly 
about the house, beating through the great 
elms that lined the roadway, moaning over 
the sleeping town. Jamieson drew the 
curtains across the windows, glanced with an 
appreciative yawn at the bed, and assured 
himself that he would not be disturbed by 
the bell that night. He had been astir since 
three o'clock the same morning, and had 
successfully introduced one more red-skinned, 
blinking mortal to the sorrows and gladnesses 
of life. 

Young Jamieson, for to the townsfolk he 
was still " young Jamieson," despite a few 
grey hairs over the temples, a virile face, and 
a grave manner, had won for himself a repu- 
tation for cleverness in that particular corner 
of the country. Great, long-limbed athlete 
that he was, success had persecuted him 
from his student's days, muzzling the mouths 
of hypercritical examiners, marking him out 
as a man of nerve and power among his 
fellows. With signal magnanimity young 
Jamieson had refused to ruin all the great 
ones of Harley Street by entering into com- 
petition with them as a man of means. 
Jamieson was built for a country life. He 
was a man of the moors and of the morning, 
keen-eyed and clean-hearted. He had pur- 
chased a practice at King's Mailing from an 
antediluvian old surgeon to whom Lister 
seemed something of a charlatan. 

Whether it was the grave confidence of his 
strong-featured face or the quiet masterful- 
ness of his manner that served him, young 
Jamieson had won popularity in King's 
Mailing. Success still importuned him, as 
did the many dear matrons who possessed 
marriageable daughters. Being a flourishing 
bachelor, he was boldly assailed with the 
dogma that a young doctor should be 
married in order to deserve the complete 
confidence of his fairer patients. Jamieson 
did not appear to be an impressionable 
being. He went his way with a grim and 
firm - lipped composure, courteous and 

sympathetic, a monument of professional 

Despite his prognostications, it was fated 
that the young doctor should enjoy no sleep 
that night. He was in the act of slipping 
into bed when the night-bell pealed in the 
passage below his room. Letting slip certain 
remarks that would not have edified the ears 
of his feminine admirers, he snatched his 
dressing-gown from the peg behind the door, 
took the candle, and went wearily down- 
stairs. Passing through the surgery into the 
passage leading to the back door, he unlocked 
it and, shading the candle with his hand, 
looked out into the unpropitious night. 

The indistinct figure of a man showed in 
the dusk. He touched his hat and held out 
a letter to Jamieson, who was shielding the 
spluttering candle behind the door. 

" From Mr. Amoory, sir." 


" Mr. Amoory of Firlands. I have a trap 
at the gate. You be to come at once." 

Jamieson frowned at the bluntness of the 
man's remark, told him to wait, and, lighting 
the lamp in the surgery, cut the envelope 
with a spatula and drew out the letter. 

" Dear Sir, — My niece, Miss Vivienne 
Grey, has been taken suddenly and seriously 
ill, I think that she caught a chill two days 
ago. I shall be glad if you will come at 
once and see her. — Faithfully yours, 

"Anthony Amoory." 

Jamieson folded up the letter and thrust it 
between the leaves of the ledger on the desk. 
Calling to the groom, and telling him that he 
would be with him in a few minutes, he went 
upstairs to dress with professional resigna- 
tion, for Amoory's house was fully five miles 
from King's Mailing. 

It was past midnight when the dog-cart 
which had been sent for Jamieson turned in 
at the winding drive leading through pine- 
woods to the house. The doctor had been 
meditating on the nature of the case before 
him. Anthony Amoory, Esquire, was an 
old gentleman who had but lately settled in 
the neighbourhood, and had already won for 
himself an eccentric reputation. He was a 
great collector of china and old books, and 
was also reported tO|jj^Q|qt| leading authority 
'on the at^^jvili/atio^^^t^ E** 



Jamieson was not un flattered at being sum- 
moned to attend the niece of so interesting 
and cultured a gentleman. King's Mailing was 
not noted for intelligence, and Jamieson found 
himself in danger of intellectual starvation. 

The house was long and low, painted 
white, with French shutters over the upper 

jamieson was in the act of scratching the 
monkeys head when he heard a slight cough 
behind him, and, turning, discovered a very 
good-looking old gentleman smiling gravely 
and holding out his hand 

* £ Dr. Jamieson, I believe." 

The doctor ran his eyes curiously over the 

tub iMJj.-jni.vcT >«tii.:Kiv ov a maw showbh is the uusk. 

windows, Jamieson was met by a man- 
servant at the porch and ushered across 
the hall into the library* where a shaded lamp 
was burning. The room appealed to him 
instantly as the haunt of a man of unusual 
culture and of eccentric tastes. It was not 
every scholar who kept a monkey in an 
ornamental tub in one corner of his sanctum, 
a cage full of white rats on the table by the 
window, with several trays of Assyrian tablets 
waiting to In; deciphered when the archaic 
inclination stirred in the scholar 


figure of the man before him. If he had 
expected to behold an aged and ape- faced 
patriarch with dirty nails and slovenly clothes, 
he was in every way disappointed or the 
vision, Anthony Amoory was a plump and 
peach -faced old gentleman with fine white 
hair, dressed in perfect taste, and boasting 
more the air of a retired general than a 
decipherer of cuneiform inscriptions, 

" I regret having been compelled to dis- 
turb you,, sir, at such an hour." 

Jamieson bowed ui his grave and restrained 




fashion. The old gentleman's voice was 
peculiarly refined and sympathetic He 
reminded the doctor of some old French 
grandee whose very clothes smelt of courtesy. 

" It is no trouble, I assure you ; we 
doctors " 

The white-haired Assyriologist cut him 
short with a debonair wave of the hand. 

" Exactly, sir ; you are excellent fellows. 
We value you when we are in trouble. My 
niece, Miss Grey, has become alarmingly 
unwell — a chill, I suspect, due to a motor- 
drive after tennis. I shall be grateful if you 
will see her at once." 

He turned and bowed Jamieson towards 
the door with an expression of courtly con- 
cern that could brook no ephemeral delay. 
The doctor saw an elderly woman in a white 
cap and a black gown waiting for him in the 
hall. He imagined her to be the house- 
keeper, and the surmise proved correct. The 
woman led him up the stairs, where armour 
and many rare prints and pictures hung upon 
the walls, and along a gallery lined with 
carved chests, armoires, and inlaid cabinets. 
She stopj)ed before a door, knocked, and 
entered. Jamieson followed her, treading 
softly despite his powerful bulk, quietly alert 
after the habit of his profession. 

The room was a large one, and decorated 
in a medieval spirit. The wooden bed was 
covered with a green canopy embroidered 
with scarlet flowers, a carved hutch standing 
at the foot thereof. The walls were draped 
with tapestry ; the polished floor spread with 
bright-coloured rugs and furs. A standard 
lamp of wrought iron, shaded by a crimson 
shade, stood beside the bed. 

Jamieson, his professional sanity a little 
startled by his surroundings, saw a girl lying 
under the embroidered coverlet, her black 
hair loose upon the pillow, the flushed oval 
of her face shining up at him under the 
warm glow of the lamp. Her eyes, though 
bright with fever, were full of a wonderful 
intelligence. She held out her hand to 
Jamieson, and nodding to the housekeeper 
intimated that she should leave the room. 

Jamieson set a chair beside the bed. As 
by habit his fingers had settled on the girl's 
wrist and he was looking in her face, noting 
every detail with the eye of a trained observer. 
She was very feverish— the hurried, soft- 
waved artery beat told him that. There was 
an anxious and wistful expression on her face. 
When she spoke it was with an intense yet 
controlled earnestness that suggested trouble 
rather than fear. 

"You are Dr. Jamieson?" 

" Yes." 

" They tell me you are very clever." 

The flattered mortal smiled gravely. 

" Have you seen Mr. Amoory ? " 


" Did he tell you anything?" 

Jamieson elevated his eyebrows, but in- 
stantly masked any expression of surprise. 

" Mr. Amoory told me that you may have 
caught a chill," he answered. 

" Yes." 

"Tennis— and a motor-drive afterwards?" 

"Yes, two days ago." 

" I hope I shall soon set the matter at 

A peculiar expression of relief spread itself 
over the girl's face. She glanced towards the 
door, desiring Jamieson to call the house- 
keeper in again from the gallery. He did so, 
and then returned to the bed, taking out his 
thermometer and laying his stethoscope on 
the table beside him. He began to question 
her as to her symptoms and the onset of her 
illness. The girl answered him very frankly, 
fixing her eyes on his, and watching his face 
with spiritual intentness. Jamieson, accus- 
tomed to register swift and instinctive im- 
pressions of the psychological phenomena of 
life, felt, though he knew not why, that the 
Assyriologist's niece was concealing some- 
thing from him while pretending to offer him 
the untarnished truth. 

Jamieson proceeded to examine her, the 
grave lines of his strong face seeming to 
grow more marked as he leant over the bed 
with his broad back to the lamp. A slight 
contraction of the brows suggested that he 
was puzzled. Heart and lungs were sound 
enough : he had suspected pneumonia, but 
found no single physical sign to betray its 
presence. Hysteria, that great mimic of 
other diseases, suggested itself to him for the 
moment. He studied the girl's face with his 
keen and searching eyes, but confessed that 
she did not conform to the hysterical type. 
Five degrees of fever were against the 

" You are sure that you have no pain any 
where ? " he asked, laying his hand upon her 

She smiled at him and put her fingers to 
her forehead. 

" Only here," she answered. 

Jamieson's eyes had cast a rapid glance at 
her forearm. He thrust back the lace sleeve 
of her nightdress suddenly, disclosing several 
needle punctures in the skin, and a red flush 
below the hollow of 'he elbow. 

" PardoiOfflH;EHr§ffVifJFtJrt©f|SAN 



She had coloured confusedly, conscious of 
the questioning stare of his keen eyes, the 
alertness of his critical intelligence. Her 
lips quivered. Jamieson saw a slight shadow 
as of pain flit across her face. She was eoiv 
cealing something. Of that he felt assured. 

stood grave-faced beside her. The look was 
fullof a swift and wistful appeal that puzzled 
while it compelled his sympathy, 

" You will see my uncle again?" 


" Am 1 very ill ? " 


" I had neuralgia some days ago " 


She turned restlessly in the bed, avoiding 
his eyes instinctively. 

" I took morphia Jl 

11 Morphia ! " 

M Yes. It was foolish of me, but the pain 
was so bad. I used a hypodermic syringe, I 
will not do it again." 

Jamieson was feeling her forearm with his 
fingers, still watching her narrowly, sensible 
of a suspicious sympathy drawing him 
towards his patient. He was the more 
convinced that she was concealing something 
from him, and the situation baffled his 
decision for the moment. Amoory's niece 
turned her head and looked at him as he 

Jamieson pursed up his lips and glanced 
at her tentatively. 

11 You are feverish." 


"Try and sleep ; I will see you again early 
in the morning." 

Jamieson descended the stairs, feeling like 
a man challenged by some problematical 
responsibility. Anthony A moor y was waiting 
for him in the library, wandering restlessly 
about the room. A pot of strong coffee 
stood on the table, with choice china, and 
a case of excellent cigars, The elder man 
pointed Jamieson to a chair, closed the door, 
and began to pour out the coffee. 

WcH, fir ? v ha said, with the air of a man 

¥#Mt^HM&f f - 




Jamieson took a cigar from the case that 
the Assyriologist offered him, shot a keen 
glance at Amoory as he lit a match, and held 
it with steady hand* 

"Miss Grey has a high temperature," he 

The Assyriologist sighed, and fumbled with 
the cigar-case. 

"She tells me that she has taken morphia." 


"There are puncture marks in her right 

Amoory had turned ; his refined face was 
white and under strain. The two men eyed 
each other a moment In silence, the strong 
intellect in either keenly on the alert. 

"Well, sir?" said the elder man, turning 
aside with a deep drawing of the breath. 

Jamieson, still baffled, watched Amoory 
with critical intentness. 

" Frankly " he began* 

" My niece's condition pu&zles you ? " 

" Exactly/ 1 

"Thanks, sir ; you are an honest man." 

Amoory had turned again. His military 
moustache seemed to bristle almost fiercely 

'ii"B4§WiA Mtt >"* w 


above his firm, clean-cut mouth. His grey 
eyes glistened. He faced Jamieson without 
flinching, squaring his shoulders, and speak- 
ing with the incisive brevity of a man sure of 
his own convictions. 

" I will tell you, sir, from what my niece is 

Jamieson bit his cigar and looked curiously 
at Amoory. 

" From septicaemia — blood-poisoning." 
11 What ? JJ 

£( Septicaemia, sir. Ask me no questions for 
the moment, If necessary — which God 
forbid — I will tell you in due course how 
she contracted the disease," 

Jamieson, startled out of his professional 
composure, laid his cigar aside, drank down a 
cup of black coffee, and stood up so as to 
face the Assyriologist. 

"Do you know, sir, what you are talking 
about?" he asked, with blunt brevity. 
" Perfectly," 

u And those needle-marks ? " 
The elder man's eyes flashed a look at the 
doctor's face. 

" Dr. Jamieson," he said, " need I remind 
you that I am a gentleman and a man of 
honour? I know something of medicine, 
though you may believe me a mere collector 
of cylinders and curbs- I am trusting you, 
and I desire you to trust me 
in return, to put faith in my 
assurances. I tell you that 
my niece is suffering from 
septicemia — bl ood- poi son i ng 
— call it what you will Are 
you willing to take my diag- 
nosis on oath, and act upon 
it t or are you not ? " 

Jamieson's strong face 
looked grim. 

"It is not usual, sir," he 
said, " for a doctor to take his 
diagnosis from a layman." 

u Not usual, sir, no. But 
in this case the layman knows 
more than the physician." 

Jamieson picked up his 
cigar, knocked off the ash, 
relit it, and smoked reflec- 
tively. He was attempting 
to master the spirit of an- 
tagonism that the elder man's 
attitude tended to inspire, 
and to grapple the extra- 
ordinary problem with which 
he was confronted. The 
trend of , the interview was 
againsW'flf instincts of his 



3 2 9 

scientific training. He began to wonder 
whether Amoory was mad, and whether he 
was justified in accepting so peculiar a 

" If you would be more frank with me, sir," 
he said, " my position would be easier." 

The Assyriologist nodded sympathetically. 

"The question is, sir," he answered, "are 
you willing to trust me or not ? I have made 
my appeal to you as man to man. If you 
doubt my sincerity — then I can say no more." 

Jamieson glanced at the elder man's face. 
Its expression of sorrowful reserve moved 
him strangely. 

" I will accept the responsibility," he said. 

Amoory held out his hand with a brave 

"You shall not regret it," he answered; 
" as a man of honour, I promise you that." 

Within ten minutes Jamieson was on the 
road again to King's Mailing, with the dim 
clouds scudding over the starless sky and the 
wind roaring through the woods with a fierce 
and melancholy abandonment. Dense dark- 
ness hid the road save where the light from 
the carriage lamps fell before them in double 
beams. The groom appeared tired and surly 
and disinclined to gossip. Jamieson, button- 
ing up his great-coat to the chin, lay back in 
the dog-cart deep in thought. 

A peculiar feeling of dissatisfaction settled 
gradually upon him. He was neither a 
superstitious being nor a man given to sensa- 
tional lines of thought, yet the sense of doubt 
and of restlessness increased in him as he 
saw the dark trees waving in the wind. The 
night was full of the hoarse mystery of the 
unknown. Its troubled turbulence seemed 
to exaggerate the peculiar impressions that the 
scenes at Firlands had wrought upon Jamie- 
son's scientific and level consciousness. He 
found himself wondering again whether 
Anthony Amoory was mad, and whether it 
was not his duty to insist upon the immediate 
advice of an experienced consultant. Many 
bizarre and extravagant possibilities flitted 
through the doctor's brain. He recalled 
certain sensational tales that he had read in 
a contemporary magazine, describing the 
peculiar and exciting experiences of an 
impossible and priggish young physician. 
It was two in the morning, when all life is 
at low ebb. Jamieson felt the cold striking 
him even through his heavy coat. The moan- 
ing of the wind was enough to make any man 
miserable and credulous at such an hour. 

The familiar glint of the bottles in the 
surgery and the warm glow of the lamp 
recovered Jamieson from his temporary 

Vol. xxxiii.--42. 

depression. He had ordered the groom to 
wait, intending to return immediately to 
Firlands. Lighting the glass spirit-lamp he 
sterilized his syringe and needles, took two 
bottles of serum from his instrument cabinet, 
and made up a mixture of carbolic acid and 
quinine. Finally he filled up a telegram 
form instructing a well-known firm in London 
to dispatch several phials of antistreptococcic 
serum by special messenger to King's Mailing. 
Knocking up his groom, who slept in a cottage 
off the stable-yard, Jamieson told the man 
to send off the telegram as soon as the post- 
office was open, and to meet the midday